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THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 

BY 

GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL 

AUTHOR OF 

“In the Way,” “Lone Point” “An Unwilling Guest” etc. 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 

BY 

EDITH M. NICHOLL BOWYER 





PHILADELPHIA 

AMERICAN BAPTIST PUBLICATION SOCIETY 

1420 Chestnut Street 



THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 

Two Cowtd R«EctiiveD 

OCT. Sf 190? 

iOTv 

0 LAS 8 ®‘-”'XXe «o. 

**>% 5-4-4- 

COPY B. 


Copyright 1902 by the 
American Baptist Publication Society 

Published September, 1902 



c ■ c. c < f i . 1 < 

etc c 

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C C T « 



Jfrom tbc Society's own lprcss 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 



P- 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


“I have just discovered who you are and felt as if I would 
like to shake hands with you ’ ” 11 

I She lingered as if transfixed before the picture” .... 23 

‘ He dropped it and it shivered into fragments at his feet” . 38 

I I Who is it?’ he asked sharply and suspiciously” ... 45 

‘ She stood behind his big leather chair , her hands clasped 
together against one cheek” 55 

1 He threw away his cigar and disappeared behind the 
shrubbery” 67 

‘The ‘ ladye of high degree ’ . . . saw them standing 
also ” 79 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


“ i It is a heretic name ! ’ exclaimed Le Loutre ” 3 

“ Suddenly the girl raised her head ” 27 

il M. V Abbe commands” 42 

“ But Gabriel had neither eyes nor ears for the priest” . . 69 

“ ‘ Wild Deer; tell Wild Deer '” 82 

11 Far away at the mouth of the inlet ... lay three small 

ships” 91' 

“ ‘ And thou wilt make me a traitor too ! ’ he cried ”... 120 

“ They sat down side by side before the empty hearth ” . . 131 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 

BY 


GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL 


The Angel of his presence saved them. 

In his love and m his pity he redeemed them. 

— Old Testament 




( 


Llr ! 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


CHAPTER I 

J OHN WENTWORTH STANLEY stood on the 
deck of an Atlantic Liner looking off to sea and 
meditating. The line of smoke that floated away 
from his costly cigar followed the line of smoke from 
the steamer as if it were doing honest work to help 
get Mr. Stanley to New York. The sea in the dis- 
tance was sparkling and monotonous and the horizon 
line empty and bright, but Mr. Stanley seemed to see 
before him the hazy outlines of New York as they 
would appear in about twenty-four hours more, if all 
went well. And of course all would go well. He had 
no doubt of that. Everything had always gone well 
for him. 

Especially well had been these last two years of travel 
and study abroad. He reflected with satisfaction upon 
the knowledge and experience he had gained in his own 
special lines, upon the polish he had acquired, and he 
glanced over himself, metaphorically speaking, and 
found no fault in John Wentworth Stanley. He was 
not too Parisian in his deferential manner, he was not 
too English in his deliberation, neither was he, that 
worst of all traits in his eyes, too American in his blunt- 

7 


8 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


ness. He had acquired something from each nation, 
and considered that the combined result was good. It 
is a comfortable feeling to be satisfied with one’s self. 

Nor had he been shut entirely out of the higher 
circles of foreign society. There were pleasant mem- 
ories of delightful evenings within the noble walls of ex- 
clusive homes, of dinners and other enjoyable occasions 
with great personages where he had been an honored 
guest. When he thought of this, he raised his chest an 
inch higher and stood just a little straighter. 

There was also a memory picture of one, perhaps 
more, but notably of one “ladye of high degree,” 
who had not shown indifference to his various charms. 
It was pleasant to feel that one could if one would. In 
due time he would consider this question more carefully. 
In the near future this lady was to visit America. He 
had promised himself and her the pleasure of showing 
her a few of his own country’s attractions. And, — well, 
he might go abroad again after that on business. 

His attention was not entirely distracted by his vision 
of the ‘ ‘ ladye of high degree ’ ’ from looking upon his old 
homeland and anticipating the scenes and the probable 
experiences that would be his in a few hours. Two 
years seemed a long time when he looked back upon it, 
though it had been brief in the passing. He would 
doubtless find changes, but there had been changes in him 
also. He was older, his tastes were — what should he 
say — developed ? He would not take pleasure in the 
same way that he had taken it when he left, perhaps. 
He had learned that there were other things — things if 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 9 

not better, at least more cultured and less old-fashioned 
than his former diversions. Of course he did not de- 
spise his up-bringing, nor his homeland, but he had 
other interests now as well, which would take much of 
his time. He had been from home long enough for the 
place he left to have closed behind him, and he would 
have no difficulty in staying “dropped out.” He ex- 
pected to spend much of his time in New York. Of 
course he would make his headquarters at home, where 
his father and mother were living, in a small city within 
a short distance of America’s metropolis. 

His man — he had picked up an excellent one while 
traveling through Scotland — had gone on ahead to un- 
pack and put in place the various objects of art, etc., that 
he had gathered on his travels. He had not as yet be- 
come so accustomed to the man that he could not do 
without him from day to day, and had found it con- 
venient to send him home on the ship ahead of his own. 

He wondered what his home-coming would be like. 
His father and mother would of course be glad to see 
him and give him their own welcome. But even with 
them he could not feel that he was coming home to a 
place where he was indispensable. They had other 
children, his brothers and sisters, married and living 
not far from home. Of course they would be glad to 
have him back, all of them, but they had been happy 
enough without him, knowing he was happy. But in 
town, while he had friends, there were none whom he 
eagerly looked forward to meeting. He had attended 
school there of course, and in later years, after his re- 


10 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


turn from college, had gone into the society of the place, 
the literary clubs and tennis clubs and, to a degree, into 
church work. He had indeed been quite enthusiastic 
in church work at one time, had helped to start a mis- 
sion Sunday-school in a quarter where it was much 
needed, and acted as superintendent up to the time 
when he had gone abroad. He smiled to himself as he 
thought of his ‘‘boyish enthusiasm” as he termed it, 
and turned his thoughts to his more intelligent man- 
hood. Of course he would now have no time for such 
things. His work in the world was to be of a graver 
sort, to deal with science and art and literature. He 
was done with childish things. 

He was interrupted just here by one of the passengers. 
“ I beg your pardon, I have just discovered who you 
are and felt as if I would like to shake hands with you.” 

The speaker was a plain, elderly man with fine fea- 
tures and an earnest face. Mr. Stanley had noticed 
him casually several times and remarked to himself that 
that man would be quite fine looking if he would only 
pay a little more attention to his personal appearance. 
Not that he was not neatly dressed, nor that his hand- 
some, wavy, iron gray hair was not carefully brushed ; 
but somehow John Wentworth Stanley had acquired 
during his stay abroad a nice discrimination in toilet 
matters, and liked to see a man with his trousers 
creased or not creased, as the height of the mode might 
demand, and classed him, involuntarily, accordingly. 

But he turned in surprise as the stranger addressed 
him. What possible business could this man have with 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCI 1 1 

him, and wliat had he done that should make the man 



44 4 I HAVE JUST DISCOVERED WHO YOU ARE AND FELT AS IF I 
WOULD LIKE TO SHAKE HANDS WITH YOU.’ M 


want to shake hands with him ? 


12 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


Mr. Stanley was courteous always, and he at once 
threw away the end of his finished cigar and accepted 
the proffered hand graciously, with just a tinge of his 
foreign -acquired nonchalance. 

“My name is Manning. You don’t know me. I 
came to live at Cliveden shortly after you went abroad, 
but I assure you, I have heard much of you and your 
good work. I wonder I did not know you, Mr. Stanley, 
from your resemblance to your mother,” the stranger 
added, looking into the young man’s eyes with his own 
keen, gray ones. He did not add that one thing which 
had kept him from recognizing his identity had been 
that he did not in the least resemble the Mr. Stanley he 
had been led to expect. 

Mr. Manning owned to himself in the privacy of his 
stateroom afterward that he was just a little disappointed 
in the man, though he was handsome, and had a good 
face, but he did seem to be more of a man of the world 
than he had expected to find him. However, no trace 
of this was written in his kindly, interested face, as John 
Stanley endeavored to master the situation and discover 
what all this meant. 

“ Oh, I know all about your work in Cliveden, Mr. 
Stanley. I have been interested in the Forest Hill 
Mission from my first residence there, and what I did 
not learn for myself my little girl told me. She is a 
great worker, and as she has no mother, she makes me 
her confidant, so I hear all the stories of the trials and 
conflicts of her Sunday-school class, and among other 
things I constantly hear of this one and that one who 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


13 


owe their Christian experience to the efforts of the 
founder of the mission and its first superintendent. 
Your crown will be rich in jewels. I shall never for- 
get Joe Andrews’ face when he told me the story of how 
you came to him Sunday after Sunday, and said ‘ Joe, 
aren’t you ready to be a Christian yet ? ’ and how time 
after time he would shake his head, and he says your 
face would grow so sad.” The elder gentleman looked 
closely at the clean-shaven, cultured face before him to 
trace those lines which proved him to be the same man 
he was speaking of, and could not quite understand 
their absence, but went on, “ and you would say, ‘ Joe, 
I shall not give you up. I am praying for you every 
day. Don’t forget that.’ And then when he finally 
could not hold out any longer and came to Christ, he 
says you were so glad, and he cannot forget how good 
it was of you to care for him and to stick to him that 
way. He said your face looked just as if the sun were 
shining on it the day he united with the church. That 
was a wonderful work you did there. It is marvelous 
how it has grown. Those boys of yours will repay the 
work you put upon them some day. Nearly all of the 
original members of your own class are now earnest 
Christians, and they cannot get done telling about what 
you were to them. My little girl writes me every mail 
more about it.” 

John Stanley suddenly felt like a person who is lifted 
out of his present life and set down in a former ex- 
istence. All his tastes, his friends, his pursuits, his 
surroundings, during the past two years had been ut- 


14 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


terly foreign to the work about which the stranger had 
been speaking. He had become so engrossed in his 
new life that he had actually forgotten the old. Not 
forgotten it in the sense that he was not aware of its 
facts, but rather forgotten his joy in it. And he stood 
astonished and bewildered, hardly knowing how to enter 
into the conversation, so utterly out of harmony with 
its spirit did he find himself. As the stranger told the 
story of Joe Andrews there rushed over him the memory 
of it all : the boy’s dogged face ; his own interest awak- 
ened one day during his teaching of the lesson when he 
caught an answering gleam of interest in the boy’s eye, 
and was seized with a desire to make Jesus Christ a 
real, living person to that boy’s heart ; his watching of 
the kindling spark in that sluggish soul, and how little by 
little it grew, till one night the boy came to his home when 
there were guests present, and called for him, and he 
had gone out with him into the dewy night under the 
stars and sat down with him on the front piazza shaded 
by the vines, hoping and praying that this might be his 
opportunity to say the word that should lead the boy to 
Christ, when behold, he found that Joe had come to 
tell him, solemnly as though he were taking the oath of 
his life, that he now made the decision for Christ and 
hereafter would serve him, no matter what he wanted 
him to do. A strange thrill came with the memory of his 
own joy over that redeemed soul, and how it had lin- 
gered with him as he went back among his mother’s 
guests, and how it would break out in a joyous smile 
now and then till one of the guests remarked, “John, 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


15 


you seem to be unusually happy to-night for some rea- 
son.” How vividly it all came back now when the vein 
of memory was once opened. Incident after incident 
came to mind, and again he felt or remembered that 
thrill of joy when a soul says, “You have helped me 
to find Christ.” 

Mr. Manning was talking of his daughter. John 
had a dim idea that she was a little girl, but he did not 
stop to question. He was remembering. And there 
was a strange mingling of feelings. His new character 
had so thoroughly impressed its importance upon him 
that he felt embarrassed in the face of what he used to 
be. Strangely enough the first thing that came to 
mind was, What would the “ ladye of high degree” 
think if she knew all this ? She would laugh. Ah ! 
That would hurt worse than anything she could do. He 
winced almost visibly under her fancied merriment. It 
was worse than if she had looked grave, or sneered, or ar- 
gued, or anything else. He could not bear to be laughed 
at, especially in his new role. And somehow his old self 
and his new did not seem to fit rightly together. But 
then the new love of the world and his new tastes came 
in with all the power of a new affection and asserted them- 
selves, and he straightened up haughtily and told him- 
self that of course he need not be ashamed of his boyhood. 
He had not done anything but good. He should be 
proud of that, and especially so as he would probably 
not come in contact with such work and such people 
again. He had more important things to attend to. 

Not that he said all this, or thought it in so many 


16 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


words ; it passed through his mind like phantoms chas- 
ing one another. Outwardly he was the polished, cour- 
teous gentleman, listening attentively to what this 
father was saying about his daughter, though really he 
cared little about her. Did Mr. Stanley know that 
she had taken his former Sabbath -school class and that 
there were many new members, among them some 
young men from the foundries? No, he did not. He 
searched in his memory and found a floating sentence 
from one of his mother’s letters about a young woman 
who had consented to take his class till his return and 
who was doing good work. It had been written, per- 
haps, a year ago, and it had not concerned him much at 
the time as he was so engrossed in his study of the 
architecture of the south of France. He recalled it 
now just in time to tell the father how his mother had 
written him about the class, and so save his reputation 
as a Sunday-school teacher. It transpired that the 
daughter who had taken the class and the little girl the 
stranger so constantly referred to as writing him letters 
about things were one and the same. He wondered 
vaguely what kind of a little girl was able to teach a 
class of young men, but his mind was more concerned 
with something else now. 

It appeared that the former mission where he had 
been superintendent had grown into a live Sunday- 
school, and that they were looking for his home-coming 
with great joy and expectation. How could such a 
thing be other than disconcerting to the man he had be- 
come ? He had no time to be bothered with his former 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


17 


life. He had his life-work to attend to, which was not — 
and now he began to feel irritated — mission Sunday- 
schools. That was all well enough for his boyhood, but 
now — and besides there was the “lad ye of high de- 
gree.” 

Perhaps the man of experience saw the stiffening of 
the shoulders and the upper lip and divined the thoughts 
of the other. His heart sank for his daughter and her 
boys, and the mission, and their plans for his home- 
coming, and he made up his mind that secret or no 
secret, this man must be told a little of the joy of sacri- 
fice that had been going on for him, for surely he could 
not have been the man that he had been, and not have 
enough of goodness left in his heart to respond to that 
story, no matter what he had become. And so he told 
him as much of the story his daughter had written him 
as he thought necessary, and John Wentworth Stanley 
thanked him and tried to show that he was properly ap- 
preciative of the honor that was to be shown him, and 
tried not to show his annoyance about it all to the 
stranger, and got away as soon as possible, after a few 
polite exchanges of farewells for the evening, and went 
to his stateroom. Arrived there he seated himself on 
the side of his berth, his elbows on his knees, his chin 
in his hands, and sat scowling out of the porthole with 
anything but a cultured manner. 

“Confound it all!” he muttered to himself. “I 
suppose it’s got to be gone through with some w 7 ay for 
mother’s sake and after they’ve made so much fuss 
about it all. I can see it’s all that girl’s getting up ; 

B 


18 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


some silly girl that thinks she’s going to become promi- 
nent by this sort of thing. Going to give me a present ! 
And I’ve got to go up there and be bored to death by 
a speech probably, and then get up and be made a fool 
of while they present me with a pickle dish or a pair of 
slippers or something of the sort. It’s awfully trying. 
And they needn’t think I’m going back to that kind of 
thing, for I’m not. I’ll move to New York first. I 
wish I had stayed in France ! I wish I had never 
worked in Forest Hill Mission ! ” 

Oh, John Stanley ! Sorry you ever labored and 
prayed for those immortal souls, and wrought into your 
crown imperishable jewels that shall shine for you 
through all eternity ! 


CHAPTER II 


T HEY stood in the gallery of one of New York’s 
most famous art stores ; seven stalwart boys — 
young men, perhaps, you would call them — all 
with an attempt at “ dress up,” and with them Marga- 
ret Manning, slender and grave and sweet. They were 
chaperoned by Mrs. Ketchum, a charming little woman 
who knew a great deal about social laws and customs, 
and always spoke of things by their latest names, if 
possible, and who took the lead in most of the talk by 
virtue of her position in society and her supposed 
knowledge of art. There w T ere also Mrs. Brown, a 
plain woman who felt deeply the responsibility of the 
occasion, and Mr. Talcut, a little man who was shrewd 
in business and who came along to see that they did 
not get cheated. These constituted the committee to 
select a present for the home-returning superintendent 
of the Forest Hill Mission Sunday-school. It was a 
large committee and rather too heterogeneous to come 
to a quick decision, but its size had seemed necessary. 
Margaret Manning was on it, of course. That had 
been a settled thing from the beginning. There would 
not have been any such present, probably, if Margaret 
had not suggested it and helped to raise the money till 
their fund went away up above their highest hopes. 

The seven boys were in her Sunday-school class, 

19 


20 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


and no one of them could get the consent of himself to 
make so momentous a decision for the rest of the class 
without the other six to help. Not that these seven 
were her entire class by any means, but the class had 
elected to send seven from their own number, so seven 
had come. Strictly speaking, only one was on the com- 
mittee, but he depended upon the advice of the other 
six to aid him. 

“Now, Mr. Thorpe,” said Mrs. Ketchum in her 
easy, familiar manner, ‘ ‘ we want something fine, you 
know. It’s to hang in his ‘ den.’ His mother has just 
been refitting his den, and we thought it would be quite 
appropriate for us to get him a fine picture for the wall. ’ ’ 

The preliminaries had been gone through with. Mr. 
Thorpe knew the Stanley family slightly, and was there- 
fore somewhat fitted to help in the selection of a pic- 
ture that would suit the taste of one of its members. 
He had led them to the end of the large, w 7 ell -lighted 
room, placed before them an easel, and motioned them 
to sit down. 

The seven boys, however, were not accustomed to 
such things, and they remained standing, listening and 
looking with all their ears and eyes. Somehow, as Mrs. 
Ketchum stated matters, they did not feel quite as 
much to belong to this committee as before. What, 
for instance, could Mrs. Ketchum mean by Mr. Stan- 
ley’s “ den ” ? They had dim visions of Daniel and 
the lions, and the man who fell among thieves, but they 
had not time to reflect over this, for Mr. Thorpe was 
bringing forward pictures. 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


21 


“As it’s a Sunday-school superintendent, perhaps 
something religious would be appropriate. You might 
look at these first, anyway,” and he put before them a 
large etching whose wonder and beauty held them si- 
lent as they gazed. It was a new picture of the Lord’s 
Supper by a great artist, and the influence of the pic- 
ture was so great that for a few moments they looked 
and forgot their own affairs. The faces were so mar- 
velously portrayed that they could but know each dis- 
ciple, and felt that the hand which had drawn the 
Master’s face must have been inspired. 

“It is more expensive than you wanted to buy, but 
still it is a fine thing and worth the money, and per- 
haps as it is for a church, I might make a reduction, 
that is, somewhat, if you like it better than anything 
else. ’ ’ 

Mrs. Ketchum lowered her lorgnette with a dissatis- 
fied expression, though her face and voice were duly 
appreciative. She really knew a fine thing when she 
saw it. 

“ It is wonderful, and you are very kind, Mr. Thorpe ; 
but do you not think that perhaps it is a little, just a 
little, well — gloomy — that is, solemn— well — for a den, 
you know? ” and she laughed uneasily. 

Mr. Thorpe was accustomed to being all things to all 
men. With an easy manner he laughed understand- 
ingly. 

“Yes? Well, I thought so myself, but then I 
didn’t know how you would feel about it. It would 
seem hardly appropriate, now you think of it, for a 


22 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


room where men go to smoke and talk. Well, just all 
of you step around this side of the room, please, and 
I’ll show you another style of picture.” 

They followed obediently, Mrs. Ketchum murmur- 
ing something more about the inappropriateness of the 
picture for a den, and the seven boys making the best 
of their way among the easels and over Mrs. Ketch - 
urn’s train. All but Margaret Manning. She lingered 
as if transfixed before the picture. Perhaps she had 
not even heard what Mrs. Ketchum had said. Two 
of the boys hoped so in whispers to one another. 

“Say, Joe,” he whispered in a low grumble, “I 

forgot all about Mr. Stanley’s smoking. She ” 

with a nod toward the silent, pre-occupied woman still 
standing in front of the picture, “she won’t like that. 
Maybe he don’t do it any more. I don’t reckon 
’twould be hard fer him to quit.” 

Every one of those seven boys had given up the use 
of tobacco to please their teacher, Miss Manning. 

Other pictures were forthcoming. There were land- 
scapes and seascapes, flowers and animals, children and 
wood nymphs, dancing in extraordinary attitudes. The 
boys wondered that so many pictures could be made. 
They wondered and looked and grew weary with the un- 
usual sight, and wished to go home and get rested, and 
did not in the least know which they liked. They were 
bewildered. Where was Miss Manning? She would 
tell them which to choose, for their part of the choice 
was a very important part to them, and in their own 
minds they were the principal part of the committee. 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 23 

Miss Maiming left the great picture by and by and 
came over to where the others sat, looking with them 



“she lingered as if transfixed before the picture.” 

at picture after picture, hearing prices and painters dis- 
cussed, and the merits of this and that work of art by 
Mrs. Ketchum and Mr. Talcut, whose sole idea of art 


24 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


was expressed in the price thereof, and who knew no 
more about the true worth of pictures than he knew 
about the moon. Then she left the others and wan- 
dered back to the quiet end of the room where stood 
that wonderful picture. There the boys one by one 
drifted back to her and sat or stood about her quietly, 
feeling the spell of the picture themselves, understand- 
ing in part at least her mood and why she did not feel 
like talking. They waited respectfully with uncovered 
heads, half bowed, looking, feeling instinctively the 
sacredness of the theme of the picture. Four of them 
were professed Christians, and the other three were just 
beginning to understand what a privilege it was to fol- 
low Christ. 

Untaught and uncouth as they were, they took the 
faces for likenesses, and Christ’s life and work on earth 
became at once to them a living thing that they could 
see and understand. They looked at John and longed 
to be like him, so near to the Master and to receive 
that look of love. They knew Peter and thought they 
recognized several other disciples, for the Sunday-school 
lessons had been of late as vivid for them as mere words 
can paint the life of Christ. They seemed themselves 
to stand within the heavy arch of stone over that table, 
so long ago, and to be sitting at the table, his disciples, 
some of them unworthy, but still there. They had 
been helped to this by what Miss Manning had said the 
first Sunday she took the class, when the lesson had 
been of Jesus and of some talks he had had with his 
disciples. She had told them that as there were just 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 25 

twelve of them in the class she could not help some- 
times thinking of them as if they were the twelve dis- 
ciples, especially as one of them was named John and 
another Andrew, and she wanted them to try to feel 
that these lessons were for them ; that Jesus was sit- 
ting there in their class each Sabbath speaking these 
words to them and calling them to him. 

The rest of the committee were coming toward them, 
calling to Miss Manning in merry, appealing voices. 
She looked up to answer, and the boys who stood near 
her saw that her eyes w T ere full of tears, and more 
than one of them turned to hide and brush away an 
answering tear that seemed to come from somewhere in 
his throat and choke him. 

“Come, Margaret,” called Mrs. Ketchum, “come 
and tell us which you choose. We’ve narrowed it 
down to three, and are pretty well decided which one 
of the three we like best. ’ ’ 

Margaret Manning arose reluctantly and followed 
them, the boys looking on and wondering. She looked 
at each of the three. One was the aforementioned 
nymph’s dance, another was a beautiful woman’s head, 
and the third was a flock of children romping with a 
cart and a dog and some roses. Margaret turned from 
them disappointed, and looked back toward the other 
picture. 

“ I don’t like any of them, Mrs. Ketchum, but the 
first one. Oh, I do think that is the one. Please 
come and look at it again.” 

“ Why, my dear,” fluttered Mrs. Ketchum disturb- 


26 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


edly, ‘ ‘ I thought we settled it that that picture was 
too, too — not quite appropriate for a den, you know.” 

But her words were lost, for the others had gone for- 
ward under the skylight to where the grand picture 
stood, and were once more under the spell of those 
wonderful eyes of the pictured Master. 

“ It is a real nice picture,” spoke up Mrs. Brown. 
She was fond of Margaret Manning, though she did not 
know much about art. She had been elected from the 
woman’s Bible class, and had been rather overpowered 
by Mrs. Ketchum, but she felt that now she ought to 
stand up for her friend Margaret. If she wanted that 
picture, that picture it should be. 

“ How much did you say you w r ould give us that for, 
Mr. Thorpe ? ’ ’ said the sharp little voice of Mr. 
Talcut. 

Mr. Thorpe courteously mentioned the figures. 

“That’s only ten dollars more’n we’ve got,” spoke 
up the hoarse voice of one of the seven unexpectedly. 
It was Joe, who felt that he owed his salvation to the 
young superintendent’s earnest efforts in his behalf. 

“ I say we’d better get it. Ten dollars ain’t much. 
We boys can go that much. I’ll go it myself somehow 
if the others don’t.” 

“Well, really, ladies, I suppose it’s a very good 
bargain,” said Mr. Talcut rubbing his hands and 
smiling. 

“Then we’ll take it,” said Joe, nodding decidedly 
to Mr. Thorpe ; “I’ll go the other ten dollars, and the 
boys can help, if they like.” 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 27 

“ But really Margaret, my dear, ” said Mrs. Ivetchum 
quite distressed, “ a den, don’t you know, is not a place 
for ” 

But the others were all saying it was just the picture, 
and she was not heard. Mr. Talcut was giving the ad- 
dress and orders about the sending. None of them 
seemed to realize that Mrs. Ketch um had not given 
her consent, and she, poor lady, had to gracefully 
accept the situation. 

“Well, it’s really a very fine thing, I suppose,” 
she said at last, somewhat hesitatingly, and putting up 
her lorgnette to take a critical look. “ I don’t admire 
that style of architecture, and that table-cloth isn’t put 
on very gracefully ; it would have been more artistic 
draped a little ; but it’s really very fine, and quite new, 
you say, and of course the artist is irreproachable. I 
think Mr. Stanley will appreciate it.” 

But she sighed a little disappointedly, and wished she 
had been able to coax them to take the nymphs. She 
would take pains to let Mr. Stanley know that this had 
not been her choice. The idea of having to give in to 
those great boors of boys ! But then it had all been 
Margaret Manning’s fault. She was such a little 
fanatic. She might have known that it would not do 
to let her see a religious picture first. 


CHAPTER III 


I T was Margaret Manning’s suggestion that it should 
be presented quietly. Some of the others were 
disappointed. Mrs. Ketchum was one of the most 
irate about it. 

‘ ‘ The idea ! After the school had raked and scraped 
together the money, that they should not have the 
pleasure of seeing it presented ! It’s a shame ! Mar- 
garet Manning has some of the most backwoods’ no- 
tions I ever heard of. It isn’t doing things up right at 
all. There ought to be a speech from some one who 
knows how to say the right thing; my husband could 
have done it, and would if he’d been asked. But no, 
Margaret Manning says it must be hung on his wall, 
and so there it hangs, and none of us to get the bene- 
fit. I declare it is a shame ! I wish I had refused to 
serve on that committee. I hate to have my name 
mixed up in it the way things have gone. ’ ’ So said 
Mrs. Ketchum as she sat back in her dim and fashion- 
able parlor and sighed. 

But the seven boys ruled things, and they ruled 
them in the way Miss Manning suggested ; and more- 
over, Mrs. Brown and Mr. Talcut had gone over to the 
enemy completely since the purchase, the enemy being 
Miss Manning. Mr. Talcut rubbed his hands ad- 
miringly, and said Miss Manning was an exceedingly 
28 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 29 

shrewd young woman, that she had an eye for business. 
That picture was the best bargain in that whole store. 

But Margaret went on her way serenely, not know- 
ing her power nor enjoying her triumph. Albeit she 
was pleased in her heart with the picture, and she 
thought that her seven boys had been the true selectors 
of it. She wrote in her fine, even hand, that was like 
her in its lovely daintiness, the words the committee 
told her to write — which she had suggested — on a white 
card to accompany the picture. It read, “ To our be- 
loved superintendent, with a joyous welcome home, from 
the entire school of the Forest Hill Mission.” 

The Stanley home stood in fine, large grounds, 
with turf smooth as velvet and grand old forest trees 
all about. The house was large, old-fashioned, and 
ugly, but the rooms were magnificent in size, and filled 
with all the comforts money could buy. On one side, 
just off the large library and connected with the hall, 
had been built an addition, a beautiful modern room 
filled with nooks and corners and unexpected bay-win- 
dows, which afforded views in at least three directions 
because of the peculiar angles at which they were set. 
In one corner was a carved oak spiral staircase by 
which one could ascend to the airy sleeping room over- 
head if he did not choose to go through the hall and 
ascend the common stair. One side of the room and 
various other unexpected bits of wall were turned into 
bookcases sunk in the masonry and covered by glazed 
doors. The bay-window seats were heavily upholstered 
in leather, and so were all the chairs and the luxurious 


30 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


couch. Nearly one entire end of the room was filled 
by the great fireplace, the tiling of which had been 
especially designed for it. In a niche built for it with 
a fine arrangement for light, both by day or night, stood 
a large desk. It was a model working room for a gen- 
tleman. And this addition had been built by the 
senior Mr. Stanley for his son when he should return to 
take up the practical work of architecture, for which he 
had been preparing himself for some years. 

It was here that the great picture was brought and 
hung over the fireplace, where it could look down upon 
the entire room. It was hung just the day before John 
Wentworth Stanley’s man arrived with his master’s 
goods and chattels and began to unpack and dispose 
things according to his best judgment. 

John Stanley’s mother had come in to superintend 
the hanging of the picture and had looked at it a long 
time when she was left alone, and finally had knelt shyly 
beside the great new leather chair and offered a silent 
little prayer for the home-coming son. She was an un- 
demonstrative woman, and this act seemed rather the- 
atrical when she thought of it afterward. What if a 
servant had opened the door and seen her ! Neverthe- 
less she felt glad she had dedicated the room, and she 
was glad that the picture was what it was. With that 
Ketchum woman on the committee she had feared what 
the result might be when she had had the scheme whis- 
pered to her. Somebody' must have fine taste. Per- 
haps it was that dainty, lily-faced young girl who 
seemed to be so interested in John’s Sunday-school class. 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


31 


The mother was busy in her home world and did not go 
into church work much. She was getting old and her 
children and grandchildren were all about her, absorb- 
ing her time and thought. 

The man came in from the piazza that surrounded 
the bay window and reached around to the long French 
window at the side, where he had been unpacking a box. 
He placed a silver-mounted smoking set on a small 
mahogany table. Then he stood back to survey the 
effect. Presently he came in with some fine cut glass, 
a small decanter heavily mounted in silver and glasses 
to match. He went out and came back with their tray. 
Having dusted them off carefully and arranged them on 
the tray, he placed it first on the handsome broad man- 
tel, and as before stood back to take a survey. He 
knew the set was a choice example of artistic work along 
this line. It was presented to his master while he was 
visiting in the home of a nobleman in token of his friend- 
ship and to commemorate something or other, the man 
did not exactly know what. But he did not like the 
effect on the mantel. He glanced uneasily up at the 
picture. In a dim way he felt the incongruity. He 
scowled at the picture and wondered why they put it 
there. It should have been hung in the hall or some 
out-of-the-way place. It was more suited for a church 
than anywhere else, he told himself. He placed the de- 
canter tray on the little table at the other side of the 
fireplace from the smoking set} and stood back again . 
It looked well there. He raised his eyes defiantly to 
the picture, and met the full, strong, sweet gaze of the 


32 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


pictured eyes of the Master. The man lowered his 
eyes and turned away, disturbed, he knew not why. 
He was not a man who cared about such things, neither 
was he one accustomed to reason. He went out to the 
piazza again to his unpacking, trying to think of some- 
thing else. It wasn’t his picture nor his decanter any- 
way, and he whistled a home tune and wondered why 
he had come to this country. He didn’t seem to feel 
quite his usual pride this morning in the fact that he 
knew his business. When he finally unpacked the 
wicker-covered demijohn of real old Scotch whisky that 
had accompanied the decanter, he carried it through 
the room and deposited it in the little corner cupboard 
behind the chimney, shut the door and locked it with a 
click, and went out again without so much as raising his 
eyes. All that day he avoided looking at that picture 
over the mantelpiece, and he grew quite happy in his 
work again and quite self-satisfied, and felt with a sort 
of superstitious fear that if he looked at it his happiness 
would depart. 

There were other rare articles that he had to unpack 
and dispose of, and once he came to a large, handsome 
picture, a sporting scene in water colors by a celebrated 
artist. That now, would be the very thing to hang 
over the mantel in place of the picture already there. 
He even went so far as to suggest to Mrs. Stanley that 
he make the change, but she coldly told him to leave 
the picture where it was, as it was a gift, and showed 
him the envelope to place on the mantel directly under 
the picture, which contained the card from the donors. 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


33 


So the man left the room at last, somewhat dissatisfied, 
but feeling that he had done the best he could. The 
night passed, the day came, and with it the new master 
of the new room. 

“It’s really a magnificent thing, mother,” he said, as 
he stood in front of the great picture after, having ad- 
mired the room and shown his delight in all they had 
done for him. “ I’m delighted to have it. I saw the 
original on the other side. And it was good taste of 
them to give it quietly in this way too. But there is a 
sense in which this is quite embarrassing. They will 
expect so much, you know, and of course I haven’t 
time for this sort of thing now. ’ ’ 

“Well, I thought something ought to be done, my 
son,” responded the mother, “ so I sent out invitations 
for the whole school for a reception here next week. 
That is, I have them ready. They are not sent out, but 
are waiting your approval. Tuesday will be a free 
evening. What do you think ? ” 

John Stanley scowled and sighed. 

“Oh, I suppos that’s the easiest way to get out of it 
now they’ve sent me this. It will be an awful bore, 
but then it’ll be over. I shall scarcely know how to 
carry myself among them, I fear, I’ve been out of this 
line so long, and they fancy me so virtuous,” and he 
smiled and shrugged his handsome shoulders. 

“ But John dear, you mustn’t feel in that way. They 
really think a great deal of you, ’ ’ said his mother, smil- 
ing indulgently upon him. 

“Oh, it’s all right ; go ahead, mother. Make it some- 
c 


34 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


thing fine while you’re about it. Give them quite a 
spread you know. Some of them don’t get many treats, 
I suppose, ’ ’ and he sank down in one of the luxurious 
chairs and looked about him with pleasure. 

“ This is nice, mother, ’ ’ he said ; * * so good of you and 
father to think of it. I can do great things here. The 
room is an inspiration in itself. It is a poem in archi- 
tecture.” 

Then the mother left him awhile to his thoughts and 
he began to piece together his life, that portion he had 
left behind him across the water, and this new piece, a 
part of the old, that he had come to take up again. 
There hovered on the margin of his mind the image of 
the ‘ ‘ ladye of high degree, ’ ’ and he looked out about on 
his domain with satisfaction at thought of her. At 
least she would see that people in this country could do 
things as well as in hers. 

Then by some strange line of thought he remembered 
his worriment of yesterday about that present, and how 
he had thought of her laugh if she should know of it. 
A slight feeling of pleasure passed over him ; even in 
this she could find no fault. It was fine and costly and 
a work of genius. He need not be ashamed even if 
some one should say to her that the picture was pre- 
sented to him by a mission class grateful for what he 
had done for it. He began to swell with a sense of 
importance at the thought. It was rather a nice thing, 
this present, after all. He changed his position that he 
might examine the picture more carefully at his leisure. 

The fire that his mother had caused to be lighted to 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


35 


take off the chill of the summer evening and complete 
the welcome of the room, sent out a ruddy glow and 
threw into high relief the rich, dark gloss of the frame 
and the wonderful picture. It was as if the sombre, 
stone-arched room opened directly from his own, and 
he saw the living forms of the Twelve gathered around 
that table with the Master in the midst. But the 
Master was looking straight at him — at him, John 
Wentworth Stanley, self-satisfied gentleman of the 
world that he was, looking at him and away from the 
other disciples. Down through all the ages those grave, 
kind, sad, sweet eyes looked him through and through, 
and seemed to sift his life, his every action, till things 
that he had done now and yesterday, and last year, 
that he had forgotten, and even when he was a little 
boy, seemed to start out and look him in the face be- 
hind the shadows of those solid stones of that upper 
chamber. The more he looked the more he wondered 
at the power the picture seemed to have. He looked 
away to prove it, and he knew the eyes were following 
his. 

The rosy glow of the firelight seemed to be caught 
and crystallized in a thousand sparkles on one side of 
the fire. He looked in passing and knew what the 
sparkles were, the fine crystal points of that cut glass 
decanter. He had forgotten its existence until now, 
since the day he had had it packed. He knew it was 
a beautiful thing in its way, but he had not intended 
that it should be thus displayed. He hoped his mother 
had not seen it. He would look at it and then put it 


36 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


away, that is, pretty soon. Now his eyes were held by 
the eyes of his Master. Yes, his Master, for he had 
owned his name and called himself a Christian, and no 
matter what other things had come in to fill his mind, 
he had no wish to give up the “ name to live.” And 
yet he was conscious, strangely, abnormally conscious 
of that decanter. His Master seemed to be looking at 
it too, and to be inquiring of him how he came to have 
it in his possession. For the first time he was con- 
scious, painfully so, that he had never given its donor 
any cause to think that such a gift would be less ac- 
ceptable to him than something else. His Master had 
understood that too, he felt sure. He was annoyed 
that he could frame no excuse for himself, as he had so 
easily done when the gift first reached him. He had 
even been confident that he would be able to explain it to 
his mother so that she would be rather pleased with the 
gift than otherwise, strong temperance woman though 
he knew her to be. Now all his reasons had fled. The 
eyes of his Master, his kind, loving, sorrowing Master 
were upon him. He began to be irritated at the pic- 
ture. He arose and seized the decanter hastily, to put 
it somewhere out of sight, just where he had not 
thought. 

Now the officious Thomas, who knew his place and 
his work so well, had placed in the new, freshly washed 
decanter a small quantity of the rare old Scotch whisky 
that had come with it. Thomas knew good whisky 
when he saw — that is, tasted — it, and he was proud of 
a master to whom such a gift had been given. John 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


37 


Stanley did not expect to find anything in his decanter 
until he put it there himself, or gave orders to that 
effect. He was new to the ways of a “ man ’ ’ who so 
well understood his business. As he jerked the offend- 
ing article toward him some of this whisky spilled out 
of the top that had perhaps not been firmly closed after 
Thomas had fully tested the whisky. Its fumes so 
astonished its owner that, he knew not how, he dropped 
it and it shivered into fragments at his feet on the dull 
red tiles of the hearth. 

Annoyed beyond measure, and wondering why his 
hand had been so unsteady, he rang the bell for Thomas 
and ordered him to take away the fragments and wipe 
the whisky from the hearth. Then he seated himself 
once more till it was done. And all the time those 
eyes, so sad and reproachful now, were looking through 
and through him. 

* ‘ Thomas ! ’ ’ he spoke sharply, and the man came 
about face suddenly with the broom and dustpan in 
hand on which glittered the crystals of delicate cutting. 
“ Where is the rest of that — that stuff? ” 

Thomas understood. He swung open the little door 
at the side of the chimney. “ Right here at hand, sir ! 
Shall I pour you out some, sir ? ” he said, as he lifted 
the demijohn. 

John Stanley’s entire face flushed with shame. His 
impulse was severely to rebuke the impertinence, nay 
the insult, of the servant to one who had always been 
known as a temperance man. But he reflected that 
the servant was a stranger to his ways, and that he 


38 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


himself had perhaps given the man reason to think that 
it would be acceptable by the very fact that he had 



m. j 


Slit 

^ m>t-- a ~nrffl M 1 




WBBBm 

r' -l: '■>/): 

■■•’imwigh $£;''/ 








i. 

• J ' 


HE DROPPED 


IT AND IT SHIVERED INTO FRAGMENTS AT HIS FEET 


these things among his personal effects. Then too, his 
eyes had caught the look of the Master as he raised 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


39 


them to answer, and he could not speak that harsh 
word quite in that tone with Jesus looking at him. 

He waited to clear his throat, and answered in a 
quieter tone, though still severely: “No; you may 
take it out and throw it away. I never use it.” 

“Yes, sir,” answered Thomas impassively; but he 
marveled. Nevertheless he forgave his master, and 
took the demijohn to his own room. He was willing to 
be humble enough to have it thrown away on him. But 
as he passed the servant’s piazza, the cook who sat 
resting from her day’s labors there and planning for 
the morrow’s menu, heard him mutter : 

“As shure as I live, it’s the picter. It’s got some 
kind o’ a spell.” 


CHAPTER IV 


A FTER Thomas had left the room with the demi- 
john, his master seemed relieved. He began to 
walk up and down his room and hum an air 
from the German opera. He wanted to forget the 
unpleasant occurrence. After all, he w T as glad the 
hateful, beautiful thing was broken. It was no one’s 
fault particularly, and now it was out of the way and 
would not need to be explained. He walked about, 
still humming and looking at his room, and still that 
picture seemed to follow and be a part of his conscious- 
ness wherever he went. It certainly was well hung, and 
gave the strong impression of being a part of the room 
itself. He looked at it critically from a new point of 
view, and as he faced it once more he was in the upper 
chamber and seemed to hear his Master saying, “Yet 
a little while, and the world seeth me no more ’ ’ ; and 
he realized that he was in the presence of the scene of 
the end of his Master’s mission. He walked back to 
the fireplace seeking for something to turn his thoughts 
away, and passing the table where stood his elegantly 
mounted smoking set, he decided to smoke. It was 
about his usual hour for his bedtime smoke, anyway. 
He selected a cigar from those Thomas had set out and 
lighted it with one of the matches in the silver match 
safe, and for an instant turned with a feeling of lazy, 
40 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


41 


delicious luxury in the use of his new room and all its 
appliances. Unconsciously he seated himself again 
before the fire in the great leather chair, and began to 
puff the smoke into dreamy shapes and let his thoughts 
wander as he closed his eyes. 

Suppose, ah, suppose that some one, say the ‘ * ladye 
of high degree, ’ ’ should be there, should belong there, 
and should come and stand behind his chair. He could 
see the graceful pose of her fine figure. She might 
reach over and touch his hair and laugh lightly. He 
tried to imagine it, but in spite of him the laugh rang 
out in his thoughts scornfully like a sharp, silver bell 
that belonged to some one else. He glanced over his 
shoulder at the imagined face, but it looked cold above 
the smoke. She did not mind smoke. He had seen 
her face behind a wreath of smoke several times. It 
seemed a natural setting. But the dream seemed an 
empty one. He raised his head and settled it back at 
a new angle. How rosy the light was as it played on 
the hearth and how glad he was to be at home again. 
That was enough for to-night. The * ‘ ladye of high 
degree ’ ’ might stay in her home across the sea for this 
time. He was content. Then he raised his eyes to 
the picture above without knowing it, and there he was 
smoking at the supper table of the Lord. At least so 
he felt it to be. He had always been scrupulously 
careful never to smoke in or about a church. He used 
to give long, earnest lectures on the subject to some of 
the boys of the mission who would smoke cigarettes 
and pipes on the steps of the church before service. 


42 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


He remembered them now with satisfaction, and he also 
remembered a murmured, jeering sound that had arisen 
from the corner where the very worst boys sat, which 
had been suppressed by his friends, but which had cut 
at the time, and which he had always wondered over a 
little. He had seen no inconsistency in speaking so to 
the boys in view of his own actions. But now, as he 
looked at that picture he felt as though he were smok- 
ing in church with the service going on. The smoke 
actually hid his Master’s face. He took down his cigar 
and looked up with a feeling of apology, but this was 
involuntary. His irritation was rising again. The 
idea of a picture upsetting him so ! He must be tired 
or his nerves unsettled. There was no more harm in 
smoking in front of that picture than before any other. 
“ Confound that picture !” he said, as he rose and 
walked over to the bay window, “I’ll have it hung 
somewhere else to-morrow. I won’t have the thing 
around. No, it’ll have to be left here till after 
that reception, I suppose ; but after that it shall go. 
Such a consummate nuisance ! ’ ’ 

He stood looking out of the open window with a 
scowl. He reflected that it was a strange thing for 
him to be so affected by a picture, a mere imagination 
of the brain. He would not let it be so. He would 
overcome it. Then he turned and tramped deliber- 
ately up and down that room, smoking away as hard as 
he could, and when he thought his equilibrium was re- 
stored, he raised his eyes to the picture as he passed, 
just casually as any one might who had never thought of 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PEESENCE 


43 


it before. His eyes fell and he went on, back and 
forth, looking every time at the picture, and every 
time the eyes of that central figure watched him with 
that same sad, loving look. At last he went to the 
window again and angrily threw up the screen, threw 
his half-smoked cigar far out into the shrubbery of the 
garden, saying as he did so, “ Confound it all ! ” 

It was the evening before the reception. It was 
growing toward nine o’clock, and John Stanley had 
retired to his wing to watch the fire and consider what 
a fool he was becoming. He had not smoked in that 
room since the first night of his return. He had not 
yielded to such weakness all at once nor with the con- 
sent of himself. He had thought at first that he 
really chose to walk in the garden or smoke on the side 
piazza, but as the days went by he began to see that he 
was avoiding his own new room. And it was all be- 
cause of that picture. He glanced revengefully in the 
direction where it hung. He did not look at it will- 
ingly now if he could help it. His elegant smoking 
set was reposing in the chimney cupboard, locked there 
with a vicious click of the key by the hand of the 
young owner himself. And it was not only smoking, 
but other things that the picture affected. There for 
instance was the pack of cards he had placed upon the 
table in their unique case of dainty mosaic design. 
He had been obliged to put them elsewhere. They 
seemed out of place. Not that he felt ashamed of the 
cards. On the contrary he had expected to be quite 


44 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


proud of the accomplishment of playing well which he 
had acquired abroad, haying never been particularly 
led in that direction by his surroundings before he had 
left home. Was this room becoming a church that he 
could not do as he pleased ? Then there had been a 
sketch or two and a bit of statuary, which he had 
brought in his trunk because they had been overlooked 
in the packing of the other things. That morning he 
brought them down to his room, but the large picture 
refused to have them there. There was no harm in the 
sketches, only they did not fit into the same wall with 
the great picture, there was no harmony in their themes. 
The statuary was associated with heathenism and wick- 
edness, ’tis true, but it was beautiful and would have 
looked wonderfully well on the mantel against the rich, 
dark red of the dull tiles, but not under that picture. 
It was becoming a bondage, that picture, and after to- 
morrow night he would banish it to — where? Not his 
bedroom, for it would work its spell there as well. 

Just here there came a tap on the window-sill, fol- 
lowed by a hoarse, half-shy whisper : 

‘ ‘ Mr. Stanley, ken we come in ? ’ ’ 

He looked up startled. The voice had a familiar 
note in it, but he did not recognize the two tall, lank 
figures outside in the darkness, clad in cheap best 
clothes and with an air of mingled self-depreciation and 
self-respect. 

“ Who is it? ” he asked sharply and suspiciously. 

4 ‘It’s me, Mr. Stanley; Joe Andrews. You ain’t 
forgot me yet, I know. And this one’s my friend, Bert ; 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


45 


you know him all right too. May we come in here ? 
We don’t want to go to the front door and make trou- 



‘“WHO IS IT?’ HE ASKED, SHARPLY AND SUSPICIOUSLY.” 


ble with the door bell and see folks ; we thought maybe 
you’d just let us come in where you was. We hung 
around till we found your room. We knowed the new 


46 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


part was yours, ’cause your father told the committee, 
you know, when they went to tell about the picture. ’ ’ 

Light began to dawn on the young man. Certainly 
he remembered Joe Andrews, and had meant to hunt 
him up some day and tell him he was glad to hear he 
was doing well and living right, but he was in no 
mood to see him to-night. Why could he not have 
waited until to-morrow night when the others were to 
come? Was not that enough? But of course he 
wanted to get a word of thanks all his own. It had 
been on his tongue to tell Joe he was unusually busy 
to-night, and would he come another time, or wait till 
to-morrow, but the remembrance of the picture made 
that seem ungracious. He wcmld let them in a few 
minutes. They probably wished to report that they 
had seen the picture in the room before the general 
view should be given, so he unfastened the heavy 
French plate window and let the two in, turning up as 
he did so the lights in the room, so that the picture 
might be seen. 

They came in, lank and awkward, as though their 
best clothes someway hurt them, and they did not know 
what to do with their feet and the chairs. They did 
not sit down at first, but stood awkwardly in single 
file, looking as if they wished they were out now they 
were in. Their eyes went immediately to the picture. 
It was the way of that picture to draw all eyes that 
entered the room, and John Stanley noted this with 
the same growing irritation he had felt all day. But 
over their faces there grew that softened look of wonder 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


47 


and awe and amaze, and to John Stanley’s surprise, 
of deep-seated, answering love to the love in the eyes 
of the picture. He looked at the picture himself now, 
and his fancy made it seem that the Master was looking 
at these two well pleased. Could it be that he was 
better pleased with these two ignorant boys than with 
him, John Stanley, polished gentleman and cultured 
Christian that he trusted he was ? 

He looked at Joe again and was reminded of the 
softened look of deep purpose the night Joe had told 
him beneath the vines of his intention to serve Christ, 
and now standing in the presence of the boy again and 
remembering it all vividly, as he had not done before, 
there swept over him the thrill of delight again that a 
soul had been saved. His heart, long unused to such 
emotions, felt weak, and he sat down and motioned the 
boys to do the same. It would seem that the sight of 
the picture had braced up the two to whatever mission 
theirs had been, for their faces were set in steady pur- 
pose, though it was evident that this mission was em- 
barrassing. They looked at one another helplessly as 
if each hoped the other would begin, and at last Joe 
plunged in. 

“Mr. Stanley, you ben so good to us we thought 
’twas only fair to you we should tell you. That is, we 
thought you’d like it, and anyway, maybe you wouldn’t 
take it amiss. ’ ’ 

John Stanley’s heart was kind, and he had been 
deeply interested in this boy once. It all came back 
to him now, and he felt a strong desire to help him on, 


48 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


though he wondered what could be the nature of his 
errand. 

Joe caught his breath and went on. “ You see she 
don’t know about it. She’s heard so much of you, and 
she never heard that, not even when they was talking 
about the den and all at the store, she was just lookin’ 
at the picture and Him,” raising his eyes reverently to 
the picture on the wall, “ and we never thought to tell 
her afore, and her so set against it. And we thought 
anyway afterward maybe you’d quit. Some do. We 
all did, but that was her doin’s. But we thought you’d 
like to know, and if you had quit she needn’t never 
be told at all, and if you hadn’t, why we thought 
maybe ’twouldn’t be nothin’ for you to quit now, ’fore 
she ever knew about it. ’ ’ 

The slow red was stealing up into the face of John 
Stanley. He was utterly at a loss to understand what 
this meant, and yet he felt that he was being arraigned. 
And in such a way ! So humbly and by such almost 
adoring arraigners that he felt it would be foolish and 
wrong to give way to any feeling of irritation, or indig- 
nation, or even offended dignity on his part. 

“I do not understand, Joe,” he said at last, looking 
from one to another of the two boys who seemed too 
wretched to care to live longer. “ Who is she? And 
what is it that she does not know, and that you want 
me to ‘ quit ’ ? And why should it be anything to her, 
whoever she is, what I do ? ” 

“Why it’s her, Miss Manning — Margaret Man- 
ning — our teacher.” Joe spoke the name slowly, as 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


49 


if he loved it and revered it ; “ and it’s that we want 
you to — that is, we want her to — to like you, you know. 
And it’s the — the — I can’t most bear to say it, ’cause 
maybe you don’t do it any more,” and Joe looked up 
with eyes like a beseeching dog. 

“It’s the smokin’,” broke in Bert huskily, rising. 
“ Come on, Joe, we’ve done what we ’greed to do ; 
now ’tain’t no more of our business. I say, come on ! ” 
and he bolted through the window shamefacedly. 

Joe rose and going up to Mr. Stanley laid hold of 
his unwilling hand and choked out : “You won’t take 
it hard of me, will you? You’ve done so much fer me, 
an’ I kind of thought I ought to tell you, but now 
since I seen yer face I think maybe I had no business. 
Good-night,” and with a face that looked as if he had 
been caught in the act of stealing, Joe followed his 
friend through the window and was lost in the deep 
shadows outside. 

John Stanley stood still where the two had left him. 
If two robbers had suddenly come in upon him and 
quietly stolen his watch and diamond stud and ring 
and left him standing thus, he could not have looked 
more astonished. Where had been his usual ready 
anger that it did not rise and overpower these two 
impudent young puppies, ignorant as pigs, that they 
should presume to dictate to him, a Christian gentle- 
man, what habits he should have? And all because 
some straitlaced old maid, or silly chit of a girl, who 
loved power, did not like something. Where was his 
manhood that he had stood and let himself be insulted, 

D 


50 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


be it ever so humbly, by boys who were not fit for him 
to wipe his feet upon ? His kindling eyes lifted unex- 
pectedly to the picture. The Master was watching him 
from his quiet table under the arches of stone. He 
stood a minute under the gaze and then he turned the 
lights all out and sat down in the dark. The fire was 
out too, and only the deep red glow behind the coals 
made a little lighting of the darkness. And there in 
the dark the boy Joe’s face came back clearly and he 
felt sorry he had not spoken some word of comfort to 
the wretched fellow who felt so keenly the meaning of 
what he had done. There had been love for him in 
Joe’s look and he could not be angry with him now lie 
remembered that. 

Bit by bit the winter of his work for Joe came back, 
little details that he did not suppose he ever should 
recall, but which had seemed filled with so much 
meaning then because he had been working for a 
soul’s salvation and with the divine love for souls 
in his heart. What joy he had that winter ! How 
sorry he had been to leave it all and go away. Now 
he came to think of it, he had never been so truly happy 
since. Oh, for that joy over again ! Oh, to take 
pleasure in prayer as he had done in those days ! 
What was this that was sweeping over him ? Whence 
came this sudden dissatisfaction with himself? He tried 
to be angry with the two boys for their part in the 
matter, and to laugh at himself for being influenced by 
them, but still he could not put it away. 

A stick in the fire fell apart and scattered a shower 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


51 


of sparks about, blazing up into a brief glow. The 
room was illuminated just for an instant and the face 
of the Christ shone out clearly before the silent man 
sitting in front of the picture. Then the fire died out 
and the room was dark and only the sound of the set- 
tling coals broke the stillness. He seemed to be alone 
with Christ, face to face, with his heart open to his 
Lord. He could not shrink back now nor put in other 
thoughts. The time to face the change in himself had 
come and he was facing it alone with his God. 


CHAPTER V 


I T was the next evening, and the Forest Hill Mis- 
sion had assembled in full force. They were 
there, from little Mrs. Brown in her black per- 
cale, even to Mrs. Ketchum, who had pocketed her 
pride, and in a low-necked gown with a long train was 
making the most of her position on the committee. She 
arranged herself to “receive” with John Stanley and 
his mother, though she ignored the fact that Mrs. 
Brown and ‘ ‘ those seven hobbledehoy boys ’ ’ were 
also on the committee. Occasionally she deplored 
the fact that Miss Manning had not come, that she 
might also stand in a place of honor, but in her heart 
she was glad that Miss Manning was not present to 
divide the honors with herself. It appeared that Mr. 
Stanley was delighted with the picture, had seen its 
original abroad, and knew its artist. Such being the 
case, Mrs. Ketchum was delighted to take all the honor 
of having selected the picture, and had it not been for 
those truthtelling, enlightening seven boys, John Stan- 
ley might never have known to this day Margaret 
Manning’s part in it. 

None of the central group saw Margaret Manning 
slip silently in past the servant at the door, as they 
stood laughing and chatting among themselves after 
having shaken hands perfunctorily with the awkward, 
62 


THE i ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


53 


embarrassed procession headed by Mr. Talcut and the 
young minister who had recently come to the place. 

When Margaret came down stairs she paused a 
moment in the hall ; but as she saw they were all talk- 
ing, she went quietly on into the new wing that had 
been for the time deserted by the company, and placed 
herself in front of the picture. She had spoken to Mrs. 
Stanley, who had been called upstairs to the dressing 
room for a moment just as she came in, and so did not 
feel obliged to go and greet the group of receivers at 
once. Besides, she wanted to have another good look 
at the picture before she should go among the people, 
and so lose this opportunity of seeing it alone. 

From the first view it had been a great delight to 
Margaret Manning. She had never before seen a pic- 
ture of her Master that quite came up to her idea of 
what a human representation of his face should express. 
This one did. At least it satisfied her as well as she 
imagined any picture of him, fashioned from the fancy 
of a man’s brain, could do. And she was glad to find 
herself alone with it that she might study it more 
closely and throw her own soul into the past of the 
scene before her. 

She had stood looking and thinking for some minutes 
thus when she heard a quick step at the door, not a 
sound as of one who had been walking down the broad 
highly-polished floor of the hallway, but the quick 
movement of a foot after one has been standing. She 
looked up and saw John Stanley coming forward with an 
unmistakable look of interest and admiration on his face. 


54 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


He had made an errand to his library for a book to 
show to the minister in order to get a little alleviation 
from Mrs. Ketchum’s persistent monopolization. He 
had promised to loan the book to the minister, but there 
had been no necessity for giving it to him that minute, 
nor even that evening. As he walked down the hall 
he saw a figure standing in his library, so absorbed in 
contemplating the picture that its owner did not turn 
nor seem to be aware of his coming. She was slender 
and graceful and young. He could see that from the 
distance, but as he came to the doorway and paused 
unconsciously to look at the vision she made, he saw 
that she was also beautiful. Not with the ordinary 
beauty of the ordinary fashionable girl with whom he 
was acquainted, but with a clear, pure, high-minded 
beauty whose loveliness was not merely of the outward 
form and coloring, but an expression of beauty of 
spirit. 

She was dressed in white with a knot of black velvet 
ribbon here and there. She stood behind his big 
leather chair, her hands clasped together against one 
cheek and her elbows resting on the wide leather back. 
There were golden lights in her brown hair. Her eyes 
were looking earnestly at the picture, her whole attitude 
reminded him of a famous picture he had seen in Paris. 
He could but pause and watch it before either of them 
became self-conscious. 

There was in her intent look of devotion a something 
akin to the look he had seen the night before in the 
face of the boy Joe. He recognized it at once, and a 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


55 


feeling half of envy shot through him. Would that 



“ SHE STOOD BEHIND HIS BIG LEATHER CHAIR, HER HANDS CLASPED 
TOGETHER AGAINST ONE CHEEK.” 


such a look might belong to his own face. But the re- 


56 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PKESENCE 


membrance of Joe brought another thought. Instantly 
he knew that this was Margaret Manning. With the 
knowledge came also the consciousness that he stood 
staring at her and must do so no more. He moved 
then and took that quick step which startled her and 
made her look toward him. As he came forward, he 
seemed to remember how he had sat in that chair 
smoking a few nights before, and how the vision of the 
‘ ‘ ladye of high degree ’ ’ had stood where this young 
girl now was standing, only he knew somehow at a 
glance the superiority of this living presence. 

A flush at the remembrance of his visitors of the 
night before and their errand crossed his face, and he 
glanced instinctively toward the chimney cupboard to 
see if the door was safely locked. 

“I beg your pardon.” he said, coming forward. 
“I hope I do not disturb you. I came for a book. 
This must be Miss Manning, I think. How comes it 
that I have not had the pleasure of an introduction ? 
They told me you had not come. Yes, I met your 
father on the steamer coming over. Is he present this 
evening ? ’ ’ 

It was the easy, graceful tone and way he had, the 
same that had elicited the notice of the “ladye of high 
degree,” only somehow now he had an instinctive feel- 
ing that it would take more than a tone and a manner 
to charm this young woman, and as she turned her 
clear eyes upon him and smiled, the feeling grew that 
she was worth charming. 

He began to understand the admiration of those 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


57 


awkward boys and the feeling that had prompted their 
visit of the night before, and to consider himself hon- 
ored since he had a part in their admiration. 

Margaret Manning was prepared to receive him as a 
friend. Had she not heard great things of him ? And 
she knew him at once. There was a fine photogravure 
of him given by his mother at the request of the school 
— and unknown to himself — hanging in the main room 
of the Forest Hill Mission. 

Their conversation turned almost immediately upon 
the picture. John Stanley told how he had seen the 
original and its artist abroad, and how proud he was 
to be the owner of this copy. The disagreeable expe- 
riences he had passed through on account of it seemed 
to have slipped from his mind for the time being. 

She listened with interest, the fine, intelligent play of 
expression on her face which made it ever an inspira- 
tion to talk with her. 

1 1 How you will enjoy reading over the whole account 
of the Last Supper right where you can look at that 
face, ’ 5 she said wistfully, looking up at the picture. 1 1 It 
seems to me I can almost hear him saying, ‘ Peace I 
leave with you, my peace I give unto you.’ ” 

He looked at her wonderingly, and saw the mark of 
that peace which passeth understanding upon her fore- 
head, and again there appeared to him in startling con- 
trast his vision of the ‘ ‘ lad ye of high degree, ’ ’ and he 
pondered it afterward in his heart. 

‘ ‘ ‘ And this is life eternal, that they might know thee, 
the only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom thou hast 


58 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


sent.’ He said that in the upper room/ ’ she mused, 
and after a moment, “ was it then too, that he said, 
‘ For I have given you an example that ye should do 
as I have done to you’ ? I can’t quite remember,” 
and her eyes roved instinctively about the elegantly 
furnished room in apparent search for something. 

He divined her wish at once, and courteously went 
in search of a Bible, but in his haste and confusion 
could not lay his hand upon one immediately. He 
murmured some apology about not having unpacked 
all his books yet, but felt ashamed as soon as the words 
were uttered, for he knew in his heart the young girl 
before him would have unpacked her Bible among the 
very first articles. 

At last he found a little, old-fashioned, fine-print 
Bible tucked in a corner of a bookcase. It had been 
given him when he was a child by some Sunday-school 
teacher and forgotten long ago. He brought it now, 
and with her assistance found the place. 

“How I should enjoy studying this with the pic- 
ture,” said the girl, as she waited for him to turn to 
the chapter. 

“ And why not ? ” he asked. “ It would be a great 
pleasure to have you feel free to come and study this 
picture as often as you like. And if I might be per- 
mitted to be present and share in the study it would be 
doubly delightful.” 

It was with the small open Bible on the chairback 
between them that the file of awkward boys discovered 
them as they came down the hall, hoping to find an 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


59 


empty and unembarrassing room where they might take 
refuge. They paused as by common consent, and stood 
back in the shadow of the hall portiere , as if the place 
were too sacred for them to more than approach its en- 
trance. Their two earthly admirations were conversing 
together, the Bible between them, and the wonderful 
picture looking down upon them. They stole silent, 
worshipful glances into the room and were glad. 

Then came Mrs. Ketchum with rustling, perfumed 
robes and scattered dismay into their midst and broke 
up the brief and pleasant tete-a-Ute to her own satisfac- 
tion and the discomfiture of all concerned. 


CHAPTER VI 


T HEY were all gone at last, and the house was set- 
tling to quiet. John Stanley went to his room, 
shut his door, and sat down to think. 

It had not been the unpleasant occasion to which he 
had looked forward. He had not even been bored. 
He was astonished to find himself regarding the even- 
ing not only with satisfaction, but also with an unusual 
degree of exhilaration. It did seem strange to him, 
now that he thought about it, but it was true. 

New interests were stirring within him. Or were 
they old ones ? He had gathered that group of boys 
about him with their teacher, after Mrs. Ketchum had 
broken up his quiet talk with the teacher, and had 
talked with them about the places he visited in the 
Holy Land, dwelling at some length upon the small 
details of what he had seen in Jerusalem, and the prob- 
able scene of events connected with the picture. 

He had grown interested as he saw the interest of 
his audience. He realized that he must have talked 
well. Was it the intent gaze of those bright, keen- 
eyed boys, listening and glancing now and again to- 
ward the picture with new interest, as they heard of 
the city and its streets where this scene was laid, that 
gave him inspiration? Or had his inspiration come 
from that other rapt, sweet face, with earnest eyes fixed 
60 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


61 


on the picture, and yet showing by an occasional glance 
at the speaker that she was listening and liked it ? 

Yes, it had been a happy evening, and all over too 
quickly. He would have liked to escort Miss Manning 
to her home, but her pony phaeton, driven by a faith- 
ful old servant, came for her, so he missed that pleas- 
ure. 

He found himself planning ways in which he might 
often meet this charming young woman. And strange 
to say, the mission with its various services stood out 
pleasantly in his mind as a means to this end. Had 
he forgotten his firm resolution of a few days agone, 
that he would have no more to do with that mission in 
any capacity whatever ? 

If this question occurred to him he waived it without 
excuse. He was pledged to attend the session of the 
school for the next Sabbath anyway, to give in more 
elaborate form the talk about the picture and the scenes 
in Jerusalem of which he had spoken to the boys. It 
had been Miss Manning’s work, this promise, of course. 
She had said how grand it would be to have him to tell 
the whole school what he had told her class, and had 
immediately interviewed the present superintendent, 
who had been only too delighted to accept the sugges- 
tion. 

And now he sat by his fire, and with somewhat differ- 
ent feelings from those he had experienced a few even- 
ings before, thought over his old life and his new. 
Strangely enough the “lad ye of high degree” came 
no longer to his thoughts, but instead there stood in 


62 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


shadow behind the leather chair a slender, girlish figure 
with an earnest face and eyes, and by and by he gave 
himself up to contemplating that, and he wondered no 
longer that the boys had given up many things to please 
her. He would not find it so very hard to do the same. 

How earnest she had been ! What a world of new 
meaning seemed to be invested in the sacred scene of 
that picture after she had been talking about it. He 
had followed up her desire to read the account with it 
in view, and begged her most eagerly to come and read 
it and let him be a humble listener, offering also in a 
wistful tone, which showed plainly that he hoped she 
would accept the former, to let her have the picture at 
her home for a time. 

It would be very pleasant to read anything, even the 
Bible, with this interesting young person and study the 
workings of her mind. He could see that she was un- 
usual. He must carefully study the subject so as not 
to be behind her in Bible lore, for it was likely she 
knew all about it, and he did not wish to be ashamed 
before her. He reached over to the table where he had 
laid the little fine-print Bible they had been consulting 
earlier in the evening. It had been so long since he 
had made a regular business of reading his Bible that 
he scarcely knew where to turn to find the right pas- 
sages again, but after fluttering the leaves a few minutes 
he again came to the place and read : “Now when the 
even was come, he sat down with the twelve. And as 
they did eat, he said, Verily I say unto you, that one 
of you shall betray me.” 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 63 

The young man stopped reading, looking up at the 
picture involuntarily, and then dropped his eyes to the 
fire. What was it that brought that verse home to 
himself? Had he in any sense betrayed his Lord? 
W as it only the natural inquiry of the truthful soul on 
hearing those words from the Master and on looking 
into his eyes to say sorrowfully “Lord, is it I?” or 
was there some reason for it in his own life that made 
him sit there, hour after hour, while the bright coals 
faded, and the ashes dropped away and lay still and 
white upon the hearth ? 

Thomas, the man, looked silently in once or twice, 
and marveled to find his master reading what seemed 
to be a Bible, and muttered “ That pictur, ” to himself 
as he went back to his vigil. At last he ventured to 
open the door and say in a respectful tone, “ Did you 
call me, sir ? ” which roused the master somewhat to 
the time of night, and moved him to tell his man to go 
to bed and he would put out the lights. 

The days that followed were filled with things quite 
different from what John Stanley had planned on his 
return voyage. He made a good start in his business, 
and settled into regular working hours, it is true ; but 
in his times of leisure he quite forgot that he had in- 
tended to have nothing to do with the mission people. 
He spent three evenings in helping to cover Sunday- 
school library books and paste labels into singing books. 
Prosaic work and much beneath him he would have 
considered it a short time ago, but he came home each 
time from it with an exhilaration of mind such as he 


64 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PEESENCE 


had never experienced from any of the whist parties 
he had attended. It is true there were some young 
men and young women also pasting labels whose society 
was uninteresting, but he looked upon even those with 
leniency. Were they not all animated by one common 
object, the good work for the mission ? And there was 
also present and pasting with the others, with deft 
fingers and quiet grace, that one young girl around 
whom all the others seemed to gather and center as 
naturally as flowers turn to the sun. She seemed to be 
an inspiration to all the others. John Stanley had not 
yet confessed that she was an inspiration to himself. 
He only admitted that her society was helpful and en- 
joyable, and he really longed to have her come and 
read those chapters over with him. Just how to man- 
age this had been a puzzle. Whenever he spoke of it 
the young lady thanked him demurely, and said she 
would like to come and look at the picture some time ; 
but he had a feeling that she would not come soon, and 
would be sure he was not at home then before she ven- 
tured. This was right, of course. It was not the thing, 
even in America, for a young woman to call upon a 
young man even to read the Bible with him. He must 
overcome this obstacle. Having reached this conclu- 
sion he called in his mother to assist. 

‘ ‘ By the way, mother, ’ ’ he said the next evening at 
dinner, ‘ ‘ I met a very agreeable gentleman on the voy- 
age over, a Mr. Manning. He is the father of the 
Miss Manning who ’,as here the other evening, I be- 
lieve. Do you knov. them? I wish you would have 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PKESENCE 


65 


them to dinner some night. I would like to show him 
some courtesy. ’ ’ 

The mother smiled and assented. It was easy for 
her to do nice little social kindnesses. And so it was 
arranged. 

After dinner it was an easy thing for John Stanley 
to slip away to the library with Margaret Manning, 
where they two sat down together before the picture, 
this time with a large, fine Oxford edition of the Bible 
to read from. 

That was an evening which to John Stanley was 
memorable through the rest of his life. He had care- 
fully studied the chapters himself, and thought he had 
searched out from the best commentators all the bright 
new thoughts concerning the events that the imagina- 
tion and wisdom of man had set down in books, but he 
found that his companion had studied on her knees, and 
that while she was not lacking either book knowledge 
or appreciation of what he had to say, she yet was able 
to open to him a deeper spiritual insight. When she 
w r as gone, and he sat alone in his room once more, he 
felt that it had been glorified by her presence. He 
lingered long before that picture with searchings of 
heart that meant much for his future life, and before he 
left the room he knelt and consecrated himself as never 
before. 

In those days there were evening meetings in the 
mission and he went. There was no question in his 
mind about going ; he went gladly, and felt honored 
when Mr. Manning was unable tj escort his daughter 
E 


66 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


and he was allowed to take his place. There was a nut- 
ting excursion for the school, and he and Miss Manning 
took care of the little ones together. When it was over 
he reflected that he had never enjoyed a nutting party 
more, not even when he was a care-free boy. 

It came about gradually that he gave up smoking. 
Not that he had at any given time sat down and delib- 
erately decided to do so, at least not until he found that 
he had almost done so. There was always some meet- 
ing or engagement at which he hoped to meet Miss 
Manning, and instinctively he shrank from having her 
know that he smoked, mindful of what his evening 
visitors had told him. At first he fell into the habit of 
smoking in the early morning as he w r alked in the gar- 
den, but once while thus engaged he saw the young 
woman coming down the street, and he threw away his 
cigar and disappeared behind the shrubbery, annoyed 
at himself that he was doing something of which he 
seemed to be ashamed. He wanted to walk to the fence 
and speak to her as she passed by, but he was sure the 
odor of smoke would cling to him. Little by little he 
left off smoking lest she would detect the odor about 
him. Once they had a brief conversation on the subject, 
she taking it for granted that he agreed with her, and 
some one came to interrupt them ere he had decided 
whether to speak out plainly and tell her he was one 
whom she was condemning by her words. His face 
flushed over it that night as he sat before his fire. She 
had been telling him what one of the boys had said 
when she had asked him why he thought he could not 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


67 


be a Christian: “Well, I can’t give up smokin’, and 
we know He never would ’a’ smoked.” That had 
seemed a conclusive argument to the boy. 



“he THREW AW r AY HIS CIGAR AND DISAPPEARED BEHIND THE 


SHRUBBERY.” 

Was it true that he was sure his Master never would 
have done it ? Then ought he, a professed follower of 
Christ ? He tried to say that Miss Manning had pe- 


68 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


culiar views on this subject and that those boys were 
unduly influenced by her ; and he recalled how many 
good followers of Christ were addicted to the habit. 
Nevertheless, he felt sure that no one of them would ad- 
vise a young man to begin to smoke and he also felt 
sure about what Jesus Christ would do. 

It had been a long time since he had tried himself and 
his daily walking with that sentence, “What would 
Jesus do? ” He did not realize that he was again fall- 
ing into the way of it. If he had it might have made 
him too satisfied with himself. 

There came to be many nights when he sat up late 
looking into the fire and comparing his life with the life 
of the Man whose pictured eyes looked down so con- 
stantly into his own. It was like having a shadow of 
Christ’s presence with him constantly. At first it had 
annoyed him and hung over him like a pall, that feel- 
ing of the unseen Presence which was symbolized by the 
skillful hand of the artist. Then it had grown awe- 
some, and held him from many deeds and words, nay 
even thoughts, until now it w T as growing sweet and dear, 
a presence of help, the eyes of a friend looking down 
upon him in all his daily actions, and unconsciously he 
was beginning to wonder whenever a course of conduct 
was presented to his mind whether it would seem right 
to Christ. 

At last the happy winter was slipping away rapidly. 
He had scarcely stopped to realize how fast, until one 
night when letters had come in on the evening mail, one 
from England brought vividly to his mind some of his 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


69 


thoughts and resolves and feelings during that return 
voyage in the fall. He smiled to himself as he leaned 
back in the great leather chair and half-closed his eyes. 
How he had resolved to devote himself to art and litera- 
ture and leave religion and philanthropy to itself ! And 
he had devoted himself to literature, in a way. Had 
not he and Miss Manning and several others of the mis- 
sion spent the greater part of the winter in an effort to 
put good pictures and books into the homes of the peo- 
ple of the mission, and also to interest these people in the 
pictures and books ? He had delivered several popular 
lectures, illustrated by the best pictures, and had assisted 
at readings from our best authors. But would his broad 
and cultured friends from the foreign shore, who had so 
high an opinion of his ability, consider that a strict de- 
votion of himself to art and literature ? And as for the 
despised mission and its various functions, it had become 
the center of his life interest. He glanced up at the 
picture on his wall. Had it not been the cause of all 
this change in actions, his plans, his very feelings? 
Nay, had not its central figure, the Man of Sorrows, 
become his friend, his guide, his Saviour in a very real 
and near sense ? 

And so he remembered the first night he had looked 
upon that picture and its strange effect upon him. He 
remembered some of his own thoughts minutely, his 
vision of that “ladye of high degree” with whose 
future his own seemed likely to be joined. How strange 
it seemed to him now that he could have ever dreamed 
of such a thing ! Her supercilious smile seemed even 


70 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


now to make him shrink. The prospect of her trip to 
America in the spring or early summer was not the 
pleasant thing he had then thought it. Indeed, it an- 
noyed him to remember how much would be expected 
of him as guide and host. It would take his time from 
things — and people — more correctly speaking, one per- 
son who had grown very dear. He might as well confess 
it to himself now as at any other time. Margaret Man- 
ning had become to him the one woman in all the earth 
whose love he cared to win. And looking on his heart 
as it now was, and thinking of himself as when he first 
returned from abroad, he realized that he was not nearly 
so sure of her saying “Yes” to his request that she 
would give her life into his keeping, as he had been 
that the ‘ ‘ ladye of high degree ’ ’ would assent to that 
request. 

Why was it ? Ah ! Of this one he was not worthy, 
so pure and true and beautiful a woman was she. 
While the other — was it possible that he had been 
willing to marry a woman about whom he felt as he 
did toward this other haughty woman of wealth and 
position ? To what depths had he almost descended ! 
He shuddered involuntarily at the thought. 

By and by he arose and put out the light preparatory 
to going upstairs for the night, humming a line of an 
old song : 

“The laird may marry his ladye, his ladye of high degree— 

But I will marry my true love,” 

and then his face broke into a sweet smile and he added 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


71 


aloud and heartily, “ if I can ” — and hummed the clos- 
ing words, “ For true of heart am I,” as he went out 
into the hall, a look of determination growing on his 
face and the vision of Margaret Manning enshrined in 
his heart. 


CHAPTER VII 


T HE visit of the “ ladye of high degree ” to America 
was delayed by wind and tide and circumstance 
until the late fall, and in the meantime the people 
of America had not stood still for her coming. 

Among other things that had been done, there had 
been put up and fully equipped a sort of club-house be- 
longing to the Forest Hill Mission. It does not take 
long to carry out such schemes when there are two earn- 
est persons with determination and ability to work like 
John Stanley and Margaret Manning. 

The money for the scheme had come in rapidly and 
from unexpected sources. Margaret declared that 
every dollar was an answer to prayer. 

The house itself was perfectly adapted for the carry- 
ing out of their plans of work. There were reading- 
rooms and parlors where comfort and a certain degree 
of refinement prevailed. There was a gymnasium in 
which the privileges and days were divided equally be- 
tween men and women, and where thorough instruction 
was given. There were rooms in which various classes 
were carried on evenings for those who had no chance 
otherwise, and there were even a few rooms for young 
men or young women, homeless and forlorn, where they 
could get good board for a time, and the whole was 
presided over by a motherly, gray-haired woman and 
72 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


73 


her husband, whose hearts were in the work, and whose 
good common sense made them admirably fitted for 
such a position. 

But amid all these plans and preparations for better 
work John Stanley had found opportunity to speak to 
Margaret Manning the words which had won her con- 
sent to make his home bright by her presence and his 
heart glad with her love. 

Their w r edding cards had traveled across the ocean, 
passing midway the steamer that carried a letter from 
the 1 1 ladye of high degree, ’ ’ saying that she was about 
to embark on her trip to America and rather demand- 
ing John Stanley’s time and attention during her stay 
near his home. She had been used to this in the days 
when he was near her home, and he had been only too 
glad to be summoned then. 

His letter waited for him several days while he was 
away on a short business trip, and it came about that 
he opened it but three days before his wedding day. 
He smiled as he read her orders. He was to meet her 
at the steamer on the fifteenth. Ah ! that was the day 
when he hoped to be a hundred miles away from New 
York, speeding blissfully along with Margaret by his 
side. He drew a sigh of relief as he reached for pen 
and paper and wrote her a brief note explaining that 
he was sorry not to be able to show her the courtesies 
he had promised, but that he would be away on his 
wedding trip at the time. He afterward added an in- 
vitation from his mother, and closed the note and for- 
got all about the matter. 


74 THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 

And so it was that the ‘ ‘ ladye of high degree, ’ ’ in- 
stead of being met with all the devotion she had ex- 
pected, — and which she had intended to exact to its 
utmost, — found only a brief note with a paltry invita- 
tion to his wedding reception. She bit her lips in vexa- 
tion and spent a disagreeable day in a New York hotel, 
making all those who had to do with her miserable. 
Then she hunted up the names of other acquaintances 
in America, noted the date of that reception, and made 
up her mind to make her haughty best of it ; at least, 
when she returned home there was the laird and the 
earl and the poor duke, if worst came to worst. 

The Stanley home was alight from one end to the 
other, and flowers and vines did their best to keep up 
the idea of the departing summer indoors that night 
when John Stanley brought home his lovely bride. 

It was a strange gathering and a large one. There 
were present of New York’s best society the truest and 
best of men and women, whose costumes and faces 
showed that their purses and their culture were equally 
deep. And there were many people, poor and plain, 
in their best clothes it is true, but so different from the 
others that one scarcely knew which costume was more 
out of place, that of the rich or of the poor. 

It had been John Stanley’s idea, and Margaret had 
joined in it heartily, this mingling of the different 
classes to congratulate them in their new life. 

“They will all have to come together in heaven, 
mother,” John had said in answer to Mrs. Stanley’s 
mild protest at inviting Mrs. Cornelius Van Rensselaer 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


75 


together with Joe Andrews and the mill girls from the 
mission. “That is, if they all get there, and in my 
opinion Joe Andrews stands as good a chance as Mrs. 
Van Rensselaer. What is the difference ? It will only 
be a little in their dress. I think all of our friends are 
too sensible to mind that. Let them wear what they 
please, and for once let us show them that people can 
mingle and be friends without caring for the quality of 
cotton or silk in which each one is wrapped.” 

The mother smiled and lifted her eyebrows a little. 
She could imagine the difference between those mill 
girls and the New York ladies, and she knew her son 
could not, but her position was established in the world, 
and she was coming to the age when these little material 
things do not so much matter. She was willing that 
her son should do as he wished. She only said in a 
lingering protest, “But their grammar, John. You 
forget how they murder the king’s English.” 

“ Never mind, mother,” he said, “ I shouldn’t won- 
der if we should all have to learn a little heavenly gram- 
mar when we get there before we can talk fittingly with 
the angels. ” 

And so their friends were all invited, and none be- 
longing to the Forest Mission were omitted. Mrs. 
Ketchum, it is true, was scandalized. She knew how 
to dress, and she did not like to be classed among the 
“rabble,” as she confided to a few of her friends. 

‘ ‘ However, one never knew what Margaret Manning 
would do, and of course this was just another of her 
performances. If John Stanley wasn’t sorry before 


76 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


very long that he married that woman of the clouds, 
she would miss her guess. ’ * 

She took it upon herself to explain in an undertone 
to all the guests, whom she considered worthy of the 
toilet she had prepared, that these ‘ * other people, ’ ’ as 
she denominated the Forest Hill Mission, pointing to 
them with her point lace fan with a dainty sweeping 
gesture, were proteges of the bride and groom, and were 
invited that they might have the pleasure of a glimpse 
into the well-dressed world, a pleasure probably that 
none of them had ever had before. 

The “ ladye of high degree” was there, oh, yes! 
Her curiosity led her, and her own pique. She wanted 
to see what kind of a wife John Stanley had married, 
and she wanted to see if her power over him was really 
at an end. 

The rich elegance of her wonderful gown, ablaze with 
diamonds and adorned with lace of fabulous price, 
brushed aside the dainty white of the bride’s and 
threatened to swallow it up out of sight in its own 
glistening folds. 

But the bride, in her filmy white robes, seemed in 
no wise disturbed, neither did her fair face suffer by 
contrast with the proud, handsome one. The “ladye 
of high degree, ’ ’ standing in the shadow studying the 
sweet bride’s face, was forced to admit that there was a 
superior something in this other woman that she did 
not understand. She turned to John Stanley, her 
former admirer, and found his eyes resting in undis- 
guised admiration on the lovely face of his wife, and 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


77 


her eyes turned again to the wife and saw her kiss the 
wrinkled face of an elderly Scotch woman with beau- 
tiful, tender brown eyes and soft waving hair. The 
neat, worn brown cashmere dress that the woman wore 
was ornamented only by a soft ruffle about the neck. 
The hair was partly covered by a plain, brown bonnet with 
an attempt at gala attire in a bit of white lace in front, 
and the wrinkled, worn hands were guiltless of any gloves, 
but one of those bare hands was held lovingly between 
the bride’s white gloves, and the other rested familiarly 
about the soft white of the bride’s waist. There was a 
beautiful look of love and trust and appreciation in 
both faces, and instinctively this stranger was forced to 
ask the other onlooker, “Who is she? ” 

“One of God’s saints on earth,” came John Stan- 
ley’s voice in answer. He had been watching the 
scene and had forgotten for the moment to whom he 
was talking. Not that he would have disliked to speak 
so to the “ lad ye of high degree ” now, for he was much 
changed, but he would not have thought she would un- 
derstand. 

“She is just a dear woman in the church whom my 
wife loves very much. She is a natural poet soul, and 
you may be sure she has been saying something to her 
which would be worth writing in a book, and which 
she will always remember.” 

And then the “ ladye of high degree” turned and 
looked at her old acquaintance in undisguised astonish- 
ment. John Stanley must have noticed this and been 
embarrassed a moment, but Mrs. Ketchum came by just 


78 THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 

then to be introduced, and she proved to be the kindred 
spirit for whom this stranger had been searching. F rom 
her was gained much information, some of which as- 
tonished her beyond belief. She made one or two more 
attempts to rally her power over John Stanley later in 
the evening, but she too had fallen under the spell of 
the lovely woman whose eyes her husband’s followed 
wherever she went, and she finally gave it up. 

The final surprise came to the stranger guest late in 
the evening, as she was making her way through John 
Stanley’s study to the cloak room. She had been told 
by the voluble Mrs. Ketchem that this room was Mr. Stan- 
ley’s “ den.” She had also noticed during the evening 
at different times that people stopped opposite the pic- 
ture that hung on the wall over the mantel. She had 
not before been in a position to see what this picture 
was for the crowd, but she had supposed it some master- 
piece that Mr. Stanley had brought home from his 
travels. Her curiosity, or her interest, or both, led 
her to pause now alone, and to look up. 

As others were held under its spell, so was this 
woman for a moment. The beauty and expression of 
the work of art caught her fancy, and the face of the 
Master held her gaze, while her soul recognized and 
understood the subject. In great astonishment she 
glanced around the room once more and back. Could 
it be that John Stanley kept a picture like this in his 
den ? It was not like the John Stanley she had known. 

And then a soft, little, white-gloved hand rested on 
her shoulder, and a sweet, earnest voice said : “Isn’t 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


79 


it wonderful? I’m so glad to be where I can look at 



it every day as much as I wish.” 


80 


THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE 


Turning she saw the bride standing by her side. She 
scarcely knew how to answer, and before she could do 
so she noticed that another had entered the room, and 
she knew instinctively that Mr. Stanley had come. 

‘ ‘ That is one of my treasures. Are you admiring 
it? ” he said in the strong voice that seemed so unlike 
his old one, and the guest murmured something about 
the picture, and looking about uneasily excused herself 
and slipped away. 

They stood a moment before the picture together, the 
husband and wife. They were tired with the evening’s 
talk, and a sight of this refreshed them both and gave 
the promise of future joy. 

The “ ladye of high degree,” passing through that 
hall, having purposely come by another route from the 
cloak room rather than through the study, saw them 
standing also, and understood — that she did not under- 
stand, and went out into the night with a lonely longing 
for something, she knew not what. 

As the two stood together the husband said : ‘ ‘ Do 
you know, dear, that picture has made the turning 
point in my life. Ever since it came in here I have 
felt that his presence was with me wherever I went. 
And I have you to thank for it all. And through it 
I have gained you, this richest, sweetest blessing of my 
life. Do you know, I found a verse in my Bible to- 
day that it seems to me fits me and that picture. It is 
this : ‘ The angel of his presence saved them. In his 
love and in his pity he redeemed them.’ ” 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 

BY 


EDITH M. NICHOLL BOWYER 


There is a history in all men's lives , 

Figuring the nature of the times deceased ; 

The which observed \ a man may prophesy , 

With a near aim , of the main chance of things 
As yet not come to life ; which in their seeds 
And weak beginnings lie intreasured. 

— Shakespeare , Henry IV. 





Page 3. 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


CHAPTER I 

“TT is the name my mother called me by,” quoth 

X Gabriel sturdily. 

For a moment there was silence, save for a 
murmur of horror that ran through the assembled Aca- 
dians at the daring of a boy who thus defied the fierce 
priest ; yet his bearing was perfectly respectful. 

“ It is a heretic name ! ” exclaimed Le Loutre. 

“Pardon, M. I’ Abbe, but it is said not. My father 
also bare it, and his father before him. Never will- 
ingly will I be called by any other. Did not my 
mother swear on the crucifix to my dying sire that his 
child should bear his name ? And to break a holy vow 
— is not that of all things the most sinful, O mon 
pere f ’ ’ 

“ Thy father died unshriven.” 

“ My father was of the Protestant faith,” rejoined 
the boy quickly. “ He died faithful to his own, though 
far from the land of his birth. He would have carried 
my mother to join the colonists in Virginia, where abide 
many of his kindred, but the prospect of leaving our 
Acadian land did not please her, and he loved her 
more than kin or country. My father was a good sol- 


4 


GABKIEL THE ACADIAN 


dier and brave, monsieur ; he was but true to the flag 
he served, and to which all we of Acadia have sworn 
allegiance, and daily break our vows ! ” 

He raised his eyes of English blue, and looked straight 
into those of the Abbe Le Loutre, black and angry as 
a thundercloud. 

A fine figure of a seventeen -year-old lad he was. At 
his age many an Acadian youth was beginning to dream 
of wife and home all his own. Tall and strongly 
built, his light curls tossed back from a brow whose 
tell-tale fairness showed through the ruddy bronze left 
by the suns and storms of Acadia. 

This time the exclamations of horror rose louder than 
before, and above them was heard the piteous remon- 
strance of the village cure, “Ah, monjils, submit thy- 
self to the good abbe.” 

Gabriel’s fearless glance swept the rows of dull Aca- 
dian faces. It seemed to him as if in actual bodily fear 
the villagers crouched before the enraged priest, who 
drove, rather than led, his timid, ignorant flock, and 
the gentle cure, his subordinate. And the whip with 
which he goaded them was none other than the fero- 
cious band of Micmac Indians, to whom he had been 
sent by the French government, nominally as mission- 
ary, but in reality that he might keep the Acadians, by 
fair means or foul, in a continual state of rebellion to 
their easy-going English rulers. 

The murmurs died away into awed silence. Then, 
with a scornful lift of the hand, Le Loutre turned from 
the boy and faced the trembling villagers. His address 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


5 


at first was in the usual strain, only, if possible, more 
intolerant and fanatic than at his last visit, and Gabriel 
soon pushed impatiently out of the crowd, and flung 
himself down upon the river’s bank. Presently, how- 
ever, he found himself listening intently. Here were 
threats more terrible, even, than of old. Gabriel was 
brave ; his father’s blood did not run in his veins for 
naught ; but for once he wondered not that his country- 
men cowered beneath the lash of that fierce tongue. 

‘ ‘ The people of Acadia are the people of my mother, ” 
he often said, ‘ ‘ and I love them. But thev are cow- 
ards.” 

And when he looked forth from the harbor mouth of 
Ghebucto and swept with his eyes the wide Atlantic, 
there burned in his young bosom a fire that would have 
amazed his placid kinsmen had they known of it, con- 
tent, as they were, with the daily round of humble sub- 
mission to the priests, petty legal quarrels or equally 
petty gossip with the neighbors, and daily tilling of the 
soil — a fire that was kindled a hundred years before in 
one who sailed the seas with Raleigh, and which burned 
anew in this young scion of an ancient t-ace. 

“ I want to go, to see, to do ! ” he would cry, fling- 
ing wide his arms. 

But now, as he gave unwilling ear to Le Loutre, his 
boyish heart sank. Could the abbe in truth fulfill these 
threats of driving the people to French soil, whether 
they would or no ? Could he force them, in the name 
of God and the king, to forsake their pleasant homes in 
which the English, whatever might be their crimes 


6 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


against the French, at least allowed the Acadians to 
live in peace, unpunished too during all these years for 
their want of loyalty to sworn allegiance ? Gabriel’s 
eyes traveled beyond that dominant figure, and dwelt 
upon the savage band of “ converts ” gathered behind 
the priest. Yes, he could, and would ! 

Wrapt in his own thoughts, Gabriel noticed neither 
the dispersion of the people nor the ominous fact that 
his grandfather, Pierre Gretin, was accompanied on his 
homeward way by Le Loutre himself. His eyes were 
upon the flowing river, and the light step of his Cousin 
Margot failed to arouse him. Her sweet face was close 
tohis, and her small hand on his shoulder ere he stirred. 

‘ ‘ Gabriel, I have somewhat to say to thee. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ What is it, ma mie f ’ ’ 

“ Wilt thou not depart to-night to thy friends whom 
thou dost sometimes visit without the walls of the new 
Halifax, by the harbor called of us Chebucto ? There 
lives that English priest who taught thee discontent 
with our blessed religion and with our beloved cure.” 

“Not with our cure, Margot. He is good; he 
makes all religion beautiful and true. But wouldst 
thou blame me because my heart turns to the faith of 
my father? that in which my mother might have found 
courage to rear me had she lived ? ’ ’ 

“No, mon cousin, no, not blame. But grievous 
danger threatens all who defy the abbe, and thee more 
than others, because of thy hated English blood. But 
listen, Gabriel ; dost thou indeed love Margot as 
though she were thine own sister? ” 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


7 


The boy was silent a moment, then he answered 
simply : 

“ That I cannot tell thee, Margot, seeing that I 
never had a sister. But I love thee as I love none 
other besides.’ ’ 

“ That is well,” she said with equal simplicity, “ be- 
cause to save thy life for my sake thou must act con- 
trary to thy nature.” 

He sprang to his feet, his blue eyes flashing so that 
for a moment Margot quailed before him. 

“You would not have me play the coward and liar ? ’ ’ 
he cried. “ That I cannot do, even for thee. I am an 
Acadian — yes. Yet neither of these things will I be ! ” 

“ I too am an Acadian,” replied the young girl with 
quiet dignity, “ yet am I not false. Timid I may be, 
for such is the wont of my sex.” 

“Pardon, ma cousine, pardon,” exclaimed Gabriel 
remorsefully. “ Thou knowest how it is with me ; my 
heart beats, and the words rush, and it is all over.” 

“Wilt thou uever learn prudence ? ” she retorted, 
smiling. “We Acadians have learned it in nigh forty 
years of lying helpless like a lamb betwixt two snap- 
ping wolves.” 

‘ 4 Prudence, dost thou call it, Margot ? My father 
called it by a harsher name ; and even my mother said 
that was a poor thing we did, to live, a free people, 
under one flag ; untaxed, ministered to by our own 
priests, the very necessaries of life supplied to us, and 
yet intriguing, forever intriguing, with those of the 
other flag.” 


8 


GABKIEL THE ACADIAN 


“The flag under which we live is an alien flag,” 
said gentle Margot. 

‘ ‘ That may be ; but have we ever been called upon 
to fight for it ? And now that we are summoned to 
swear the full oath of allegiance, we have richly de- 
served this mild rebuke. The French are cruel ; we go 
with them only through fear of the Indians.” 

“ The gran’-pere , he goes with none,” interposed the 
girl with a flash of spirit. 1 ‘ He tills the soil in peace, 
meddling not with French or English.” 

‘ ‘ Ah, but even he will have to choose ere many days 
are past ; the abbe does not bring here his flock for 
naught. And,” cried the lad, clenching his fists, 
“who would be a neutral? Not I!” Then more 
quietly : “ Hast thou not heard them tell, Margot, how 
when France yielded Acadia to England we were free, 
all of us, to move within the year to French soil if we 
would ? But we would neither go nor remain and take 
the oath of fealty ; nevertheless we were permitted to 
stay unsworn for seventeen years, intriguing then 
even as we do now. At last the oath was won from us, 
and more than twenty years since then have come and 
gone, and once again, because of our untruth and the 
cruelties practised upon English settlers, the word has 
gone forth that we must swear anew. What kind of a 
people, then are we, Margot, to be thus double-faced ? 
Thirteen thousand souls, and withal afraid of priests 
and Indians ! Not daring, not one of us, to play the 
man and come out boldly for the one flag or the other. 
Oh, we are cowards — cowards all ! ” 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


9 


He flung himself upon the ground and covered his 
face with his hands. 

To simple, yet wise little Margot these bursts of pas- 
sion on the part of her cousin were almost incomprehen- 
sible. Her nature was a still, clear pool, whilst his was 
as the young torrent leaping down the rocks, unconscious 
of its own power, but eager to join the strong and 
swelling stream beneath, upon whose bosom the great 
ships float down to the deep sea. But although she did 
not understand, love gave her sympathy. She kneeled 
beside him, and once more laid her hand upon his 
shoulder ; but the words she would have uttered died 
in her throat, and instead she exclaimed in accents of 
terror : 

“O Gabriel, Gabriel, arise. It is the gran’-pbre 
who calls, and with him is still the abbe.” 

In an instant the lad was on his feet. 

“ Gabriel, mon fils ! ” 

The thin, cracked voice floated across the meadows 
from the door of the small hut, which was considered 
by even prosperous Acadians like Gretin all-sufficient 
for the family needs. Without a moment’s hesitation 
Gabriel took his cousin’s hand, and led her, half crying 
now, toward their home, where the tall form of the 
priest was plainly visible, towering over that of the 
grandfather. 

These were stirring times for Acadie. Lord Corn- 
wallis was governor of the province — the Cornwallis 
described by Walpole as “a brave, sensible young man, 


10 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


of great temper and good nature.” He needed to be 
all this and more, for the Acadians were a difficult 
people to deal with. Vacillating, ignorant, and priest- 
ridden, it was the easiest thing in the world for the 
French to hold them in actual fact, while by treaty 
ceding them to England, an alien power and race. 
Fear, however, played a large part in French influence ; 
and this was invariably the case throughout the long 
dissensions betwixt France and England. Indian sav- 
agery was winked at, even encouraged, by French 
authorities in their dealings both with English and 
Acadians ; and the fair escutcheon of France was de- 
faced by many a stain of blood cruelly, wantonly, 
treacherously shed. That the Acadians should be in 
sympathy with France rather than with England was 
natural ; their wrong-doing consisted not in that, but in 
their readiness to accept English protection while plot- 
ting steadily with the French against the flag to which 
they had sworn fealty rather than move to French soil. 
They were now in a somewhat sorry plight. 

The long-patient English government, through Corn- 
wallis, was requiring of them a fresh oath, and better 
faith in keeping it, if they continued to reside in the 
province, whilst the governor of those French pos- 
sessions, now called Cape Breton and Prince Edward’s 
Island, was using every means in his power, hideous 
threats included, to induce them to come definitely 
under the French flag. What those means might even- 
tually be even such young creatures as Margot and 
Gabriel knew only too well. 


GABKIEL THE ACADIAN 


11 


The cousins found their grandfather looking troubled 
and distressed, and the priest still wearing the menac- 
ing air which had all that day awed his village audi- 
ence. 

‘ * It is full time you of Port Royal bethought you of 
your duty to your religion and your king instead of for- 
ever quarreling among yourselves, and enriching petti- 
fogging men of law. But for thee, Gretin, though 
special indulgence has ever been shown thee, it will be 
well that thou shouldst take thought for thy family be- 
fore it is too late. Thou knowest my flock of old,” 
alluding to his savage converts, “ and the kind of lambs 
they are. Homes await the loyal subjects of God and 
the king on the Isle of St. Jean and Isle Royale, and 
if they see not what is best for their own souls’ good I 
have the means to make them see it ! ” 

Gretin was both morally and intellectually the su- 
perior of those among whom he lived, and he was also 
braver than his neighbors, but of w 7 hat avail is superi- 
ority when a man stands alone ? It was for this reason, 
combined with the habit of subjection to priestly au- 
thority, that he replied hastily : 

“Yes, M. V Abbe, it is even as you say. 

“ This boy must be disciplined,” continued the priest 
sternly. 

“Yes, M. V Abbe, so it must be.” 

It was at this moment that “the boy” presented 
himself, his head erect, his face pale, and holding the 
hand of his cousin. 

“ Drop the maiden’s hand and follow me!” was the 


12 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


abbe’s harsh salutation. “ I have that to say which is 
not for feminine ears. ’ 5 

Gabriel obeyed, but there was something in his air 
which, though promising submission, meant submission 
within definite limits. 

Le Loutre entered the hut and closed the door on 
the peaceful, pastoral scene without, lit up by the rays 
of the declining sun. Then seating himself on a bench, 
rude and plain as were the furnishings of all the homes 
of the frugal and industrious Acadians, however rich 
in land and stock, he addressed Gabriel standing re- 
spectfully before him. 

‘ * What is thine age ? ’ ’ 

“ I shall be eighteen at the Christmastide. ,, 

“Humph! a well-grown youth! Dost thou call 
thyself boy or man ? ’ ’ 

An irrepressible smile curled Gabriel’s fresh lips, but 
he answered demurely : 

‘ ‘ Neither, mon pere. ’ ’ 

* ‘ Dare not to trifle with me, son of a heretic ! ’ ’ 
broke out the priest, his imperious temper rising. Ac- 
customed to see all men cringe before him, this lad’s 
fearless demeanor was particularly galling to Le Loutre. 
He controlled himself again, however, and proceeded 
with that persuasiveness of which when it suited him 
he was master : 

“ It is as man, not boy, I call upon thee this day to 
serve God and the king, and to prove thyself worthy 
of the confidence I would repose in thee. I give thee 
thy just due, thou hast a good courage, and it is men 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


13 


of such mettle that Louis requires, men, hearest 
thou ? ’ ’ 

Gabriel’s frank, yet searching, gaze was riveted on 
the priest’s face ; and so keen were those blue eyes that 
Le Loutre shifted his, momentarily disconcerted. For 
perhaps the first time in his remarkable career he was 
conscious of difficulty in explaining the righteousness, 
according to his creed, of ‘ ‘ doing evil that good may 
come.” Not that he himself doubted ; he was too 
honest a zealot for that ; but in this case explanation 
was somehow not easy. 

“Thou knowest,” he said at length, “of this new 
oath that the heretics would extort from God’s people. 
To keep them in the fold and preserve their souls alive 
at any cost is my priestly duty ; but in order to ac- 
complish this I must have loyal aid. My Micmacs 
waver, they have even made a treaty with the English. 
This cannot be permitted to endure. It is therefore 
the king’s wish that they be secretly encouraged to 
break it, and to this end loyal Acadians in disguise 
must accompany them when they go to Halifax. Later 
these same faithful subjects will continue their work for 
the holy cause in the old way.” 

Le Loutre paused and regarded Gabriel fixedly. 
The boy’s face was alight with sudden comprehension. 
It was not the priest’s custom to speak openly of his 
plans, but he was fully aware that he was now dealing 
with no ordinary dull-witted Acadian peasant. What 
an invaluable ally this half-heretic lad would be could 
he only mold him to his will. 


14 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


Gabriel had not lived his brief span of life in Port 
Royal for nothing. He already knew that Le Loutre 
was quite capable of using force to drive the Acadians 
from their thriving farms to make new homes for them- 
selves on French soil, rather than that they should 
pledge their word to the English again, even though 
that pledge might be broken as before. And there was 
evidently some scheme more serious in process of hatch- 
ing than the well-worn one of painting and disguising 
Acadians and sending them out with the Micmacs to 
plunder and slay English settlers. The ancient farce 
of “ Indian warfare” was to wear a new face. The 
existence of peace between the two countries had never 
been any hindrance to French scheming. Gabriel had 
only too vivid recollections of the fate of certain Aca- 
dians, who had been cajoled or frightened into joining 
those Indian war-parties, and who, when taken prisoner 
by the English, had been disowned by the French and 
declared to have “ acted of their own accord.” 

The lad’s heart was heavy within him. If he defied 
the priest and refused to stoop to that which in his 
eyes was baseness and treachery, his life would be made 
a torment, nay, perhaps forfeited, none could foretell 
where Le Loutre would stop. And worse, far worse 
than this, the gran 1 -pere, hitherto well regarded by the 
bigoted priest and granted many indulgences, would be 
ruthlessly hunted from the dear home to the bleak, un- 
cleared shores of Isle Royale, or, as the English named 
it, Cape Breton. The gran 1 -pere — he was old — he 
would certainly die without the strong grandson to help 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


15 


him. And Margot ? Ah, it was too bitter ! In spite 
of himself Gabriel covered his eyes with his hand as if 
to shut out the frightful vision. 

The face of Le Loutre glowed with triumph. He 
had not expected so easy a victory. To his present 
scheme this youth, with his knowledge of the English 
tongue and the customs of the fort, was well-nigh in- 
dispensable ; moreover, his intelligence and his sense of 
honor were alike keen, and once pledged to him, the 
priest knew that he would never turn traitor. Under 
pretense of trading in furs a French vessel had brought 
to Acadie guns and ammunition enough to arm both 
Acadians and Indians, and the latter were already 
being secretly bribed by the Intendant at Louisburg 
through Le Loutre ; for a signal act of treachery was 
now required of them. 

But the priest had triumphed too soon. When at 
length Gabriel raised his head, though his young face 
looked almost ghostly in the dying light, his eyes were 
shining with high resolve. Not that the path of duty 
was as yet perfectly clear before him, or that he knew 
whither it might lead, but he was resolute to take no 
other. Nevertheless he understood that mere defiance 
would not help either himself or those far dearer than 
self. Therefore he controlled himself and said quietly : 

“ 3L V Abbe has without doubt heard of that pretre 
from the New England who instructs a flock outside 
the walls of Halifax ? ’ ’ 

Le Loutre scowled darkly. 

“Art thou a heretic already? I feared as much. ,, 


16 


GABKIEL THE ACADIAN 


“ No, M. VAbbe” replied the boy in the same re- 
strained tones; “yet I confess that the faith of my 
fathers holds much of interest for me. And he is good, 
monsieur , oh, good ! like our own beloved cure.” 

Here he hesitated ; then took courage, and went on 
rapidly : 

“ He bade me always to remember, even if I should 
not in the end turn to my father’s faith, that one of its 
noblest commands is : Never do evil that good may 
come. Also that my father obeyed that command. 
O mon pere, choose some one else for thy purpose ; 
one who is not divided in heart as I, but who hates the 
English as my blood will not let me do, and to whom 
the Holy Catholic Church is the only church ! ” 

For a moment it seemed as though the priest would 
strike the pleading face upturned to his, so fierce a 
flame of wrath swept over him, but instead he said 
with a sneer : 

“And thou wouldst thrust the words of a heretic 
down the throat of a priest of God and the king ? 
There is but one explanation, boy, thou art a coward ! ” 

The hot blood surged into Gabriel’s cheeks. All his 
his prudence was tossed aside beneath the lash of that 
tongue. Flinging back his head he confronted Le Lou- 
tre with an air which compelled, as it never had failed 
to do, the reluctant admiration of the man to whom 
courage seemed the best of God’s gifts to mortals. 

“ M. V Abbe ” said the boy, in the low tones of an 
unbending resolve, “ I am no coward ; but I should be 
both coward and liar were I to do your bidding.” 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


17 


For a breathing space the two pairs of eyes held one 
another like wrestlers. Then 

“ As thou wilt,” rejoined the priest coldly. “But 
forget not that no traitors to God and the king can 
dwell at ease in Acadie. Mine are no empty threats.” 

He flung wide the door and called to the waiting 
Micmacs. As they stepped out of the surrounding 
gloom, the pine torches carried by them illuminated 
their ferocious countenances. Margot sprang forward 
and cast herself upon her knees before the priest. 

‘ ‘ O mon plre, mon pere, do with me what you will, 
inflict on me any penance that seems unto you good ; 
but spare, oh, spare my cousin, if only for the sake of 
the gran’ -per e ! ” 

The girl’s agonized pleading rang out into the night. 
Then, in a voice rendered tremulous by years and in- 
firmity, but still not devoid of dignity, Gretin himself 
spoke. 

“ M. V Abbe ,” he said, “ the boy is of heretic blood 
— yes. But also is he of my blood — mine, who am a 
faithful servant of the true church. If he has been 
led astray, I myself will see to it that he returns to the 
fold. For he is a good lad, and the prop and staff* of 
my old age.” 

Le Loutre turned on the gran'-plre his piercing eyes. 

“ Thou hast reason, Gretin. Thou hast indeed been 
a faithful servant of the church, but art thou that now ? 
Do not thy religion and thy king demand of thee that 
thou shouldst leave, with all that is thine, the air 
breathed by pestilential heretics, and dost thou not still 

B 


18 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


linger, battening in their green pastures, yea, feeding 
from their hand ? Art thou, therefore, fit to be the 
guide of erring youth ? It may be too, that thou wilt 
have to suffer for his sin if he repent not.” 

The old man bowed his head, and a low moan escaped 
him. 

“ Hurt not the lad,” he murmured. “ He is as the 
very apple of my eye.” 

* ‘ My Micmacs will look to his repentance, ’ 5 retorted 
the priest grimly. “In the saving of the soul the 
body may have to endure somewhat, but holy church 
is merciful to the penitent.” 

As he spoke Gabriel sprang from the detaining hands 
of the Indians, and kneeling at the feet of the old man, 
lifted the shriveled fingers and laid them upon his own 
fair head. 

“ Bless me, even me, O mon pere,” he cried. 

But the gran’ -pere fell upon his neck and wept. 

“ Oh, Gabriel, my son, my son ! ” 

Before he could so much as speak to Margot, the In- 
dians, at a sign from Le Loutre, relentless always in 
the performance of what he believed to be his duty 
and now enraged by defeat, seized the youth and dis- 
appeared with him into the forest. Lingering only 
to make the sign of the cross over the helpless and be- 
reaved pair, Le Loutre himself followed. 


CHAPTER II 


G ABRIEL, hurried along through “brake, bush, and 
brier,” each arm grasped by a brawny Micmac, 
had no time for thought. A grown man of settled 
convictions might have found his situation a very laby- 
rinth of difficulty. How much more, then, a growing 
lad, unavoidably halting betwixt two nationalities and 
two forms of religion ? 

After what seemed endless hours, but which in reality 
was but a short time, the party arrived at the settle- 
ment of wigwams on the bank of the Shubenacadie. 
The priest was no longer to be seen. ‘ ‘ Am I then to 
be left to the mercy of these savages ? ’ ’ thought Ga- 
briel. Yet close on the heels of the thought flashed 
the consciousness that the Indians’ violence had con- 
siderably slackened since the disappearance of Le 
Loutre. The bonds with which they had tied their 
prisoner were so loose that he easily slipped out of them, 
and approaching the squaws who were gathering wood 
for the fires, he addressed them in their own language 
and proceeded to help them. The braves merely 
turned their heads and glanced at him indifferently. 
“ Not enough gold ! ” he heard one mutter to another. 
He had already heard that the Micmacs had grown 
shrewd enough to put their own price on the harassing 
of recalcitrant or timid Acadians, and the taking of 


20 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


English scalps ; and like all ignorant or savage races 
had quickly learned to overestimate their services and 
become insatiate in their demands. Gabriel’s chances, 
therefore, depended to some extent on the condition of 
the priest’s treasury ; also on the fact that he was per- 
sonally acquainted with certain members of the band, 
to whom by reason of his skill in woodcraft and famili- 
arity with the habits of the forest game he had not only 
occasionally been of service, but whose respect he had 
won. 

“ This is the white boy who knows even as does 
the red man the lair of the wild deer and where in the 
noonday heat they turn their steps to drink, ’ ’ observed 
one to the other, as Gabriel, restraining every symptom 
of fear, quietly joined the group around the now blaz- 
ing fire and helped himself out of the common pot. 

“ Yes,” he put in coolly, “ and I can tell you more 
than that if you will.” 

There are natures, those of women as well as of men, 
whose vitality quickens in the face of actual danger. 
They may be even cowardly in the mere anticipation, 
but the trumpet-call of duty, honor, or sacrifice, or the 
less high-sounding clarion of self-preservation, sets them 
on their feet, face forward to the coming foe. In Ga- 
briel all these forces were at work, though Margot’s 
sweet, pale face and the gran’-pere’s bowed gray head, 
were the strongest influences. And behind all these 
was that irrepressible spirit of adventure, never wholly 
absent from the normally healthy young mind. 

Drawing on his store of woodland stories, and occa- 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


21 


sionally pausing to give ear to those furnished by the 
now interested Micmacs, an hour passed in total ob- 
livion by the captors of the commands laid on them con- 
cerning their prisoner ; and when at last a tall dark 
form suddenly appeared within the circle of light, and 
a well-known terrible voice broke forth in objurgation ; 
it was plain that the owner of both was scarcely more 
welcome to his “ lambs ” than to the prisoner. 

“What is that I behold?” exclaimed Le Loutre. 

‘ ‘ Where is your Christian service, vowed to God and the 
king? Instead, I find feasting and foolish gabbling, 
with a traitorous captive in the midst ! ’ ’ 

The faces of the Indians clouded in sullen silence. 
The lash of the priest’s tongue went unsparingly on. 
At length the leader growled out, “The pale faces, 
from over the sea bring no more gifts. The red men 
grow weary of taking the scalps of friendly white men 
who are at war with your people but who do the Indian 
no wrong. They at the new fort have treated us well. 
And as for this boy, you give us not enough to take the 
scalp of so mighty a hunter and true a tracker.” 

Le Loutre ’s face paled with baffled rage. True it 
was that owing to some at present unexplained delay 
the customary large remittances from France for the 
bribing of Indians who were friendly to the English 
were not forthcoming, and with a heart-leap of joy Ga- 
briel saw the truth written in his eyes. 

‘ * Fools ! Did I bid you take his scalp ? Did I not 
bid you rather to chasten him for his faithlessness and 
force him back to his duty? This you know well 


22 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


enough how to do without my guiding presence. Yet 
I come to find ’ ’ 

With a gesture of unutterable scorn he waved his 
black -robed arm. 

But his personal influence was on the wane, and he 
knew it. It was money, gifts, that were needed, and 
for these he must wait. Yet were there still a few 
whose greed was of the kind that will take anything 
rather than nothing, and on these he depended, and 
not in vain. 

Stealthily, like dark spirits, two or three Indians 
glided from behind their companions, and took up their 
station beside the priest. Strengthened by these mute 
allies he once more faced the group at the fire, and pro- 
ceeded to pour forth in fervid eloquence alternate per- 
suasion, threat, and glowing promise of future reward. 
Gabriel soon discovered that he was not the central 
figure in this tirade — that larger projects than the fate 
of one boy were being held before the now attentive 
Indians, who uttered guttural notes of assent or dissent. 

* ‘ A hundred livres for each scalp — a hundred livres, 
mark you ! This boy knows, as you cannot do, the plan 
of the fort at Halifax, and the number of its defenders. 
If he be so mighty a tracker, let him track these Eng- 
lish dogs to their lair and fire them out of it, or in it, 
it matters not which, so that to God and the king are 
restored what is rightly theirs. But remember, a hun- 
dred livres is yours for every English scalp ! My people 
may not do this thing, for they have signed a peace with 
their enemies, but for your people it is otherwise.” 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


23 


“Have we too, not set our totems to a solemn 
treaty? ” growled one dissenting voice. 

Once more from the priest that gesture of contempt. 

“And what is that for such as you?” he said. 

1 ‘ What is a broken treaty to the Indian? ” 

Gabriel, unable longer to contain himself, sprang to 
his feet. 

11 Mon pere ! ” he cried, his heart in a flame, a blaze 
of sudden illumination in his soul. “ Nay, never more 
monplre! M. V Abbe, is this, then, the Christianity, 
the fealty to God and the king, to which you would 
have me faithful ? Then, God willing, faithless will I 
be.” 

For a long minute there was dead silence, broken 
only by the quick breathing of the excited boy. The 
Indians, though not fully understanding the words, 
realized their daring, and gazed upon him with all the 
admiration of which their anger was capable. 

‘ ‘ Do your work, ’ ’ said Le Loutre at last coldly, 
signing to the Micmacs at his side. 

In a moment Gabriel was thrown to the ground, his 
arms bound to his side, his feet tied. A hole was dug 
in the ground, a post placed in it, and around the post 
fresh logs were heaped. 

Such scenes, alas ! were not uncommon under the 
despotic rule of Abbe Le Loutre, and though no in- 
stance is recorded of actual sacrifice of life, owing per- 
haps almost as much to Acadian timidity as to priestly 
forbearance, much terror and temporary suffering were 
caused by his blind fanaticism. But in this boy of 


24 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


mixed race there was stouter stuff to deal with, and his 
English blood was to the priest as a thing accursed. 

Days passed, and Pierre Gretin and his grand- 
daughter could obtain no news of Gabriel. Tossed and 
torn by conflicting emotions, communal as well as per- 
sonal, the old man’s strength seemed to be ebbing from 
him. Yet never did he need it more. The village of 
Port Royal (now Annapolis), nay, all Acadie, was in 
the confusion of helpless distress. What should they 
do, these poor ignorant habitans? To whom should 
they listen? In their hearts they knew that every 
word of Cornwallis’ proclamation was true, that under 
English rule they had enjoyed freedom, both secular 
and religious. On the other hand, Le Loutre swept 
down upon them continually with the firebrand of his 
eloquence. “ Come to French soil,” he cried, “seek 
new homes under the old flag ! For three years le bon 
roi will support you. You are French at heart- — what 
have you to do with these English ? Refuse, and the 
consolations of religion will be denied you and your 
property shall be given over to the savages. ’ ’ 

True, they were French at heart, the most of them, 
but not all ; and their tranquil, sluggish lives had 
drifted so peacefully on the broad river of the English 
governor’s indulgence. It was almost worth while to 
renew the oath of allegiance to these foreigners and 
sleep quietly once more under their own rooftrees. 
But would they sleep quietly ? Ah, there was the rub ! 
Le Loutre had ever been a man of his word. 


GABKIEli THE ACADIAN 


25 


Therefore it came to pass that French ships passing 
to Isle St. Jean, now called Prince Edward Island, and 
Isle Roy ale, now Cape Breton, had for two years 
many hundred Acadians for passengers, some will- 
ing, more reluctant, destined to semi-starvation and un- 
utterable misery in the new and desolate country in 
which their small stock of courage was to be so griev- 
ously tried, and in which few of them plucked up spirit 
sufficient to clear new land for their subsistence, but ex- 
isted, or ceased to exist, on such meagre supplies as the 
French government furnished them. 

“ Gran’ -per e,’ ’ said Margot one evening, as bereft 
of most of their near neighbors they clung almost alone 
to their humble home, “ mon gran'-pere , what think 
you, has become of our Gabriel ? ’ ’ Her eyes were heavy 
with weeping, her round cheeks pale. 

Gretin, in yet worse case, had scarce strength to take 
his turn with her behind their yoke of oxen at the 
plow. He sat on a bench at the door of the hut, 
both hands leaning heavily on his staff. For a while 
he answered nothing, but his sunken gaze wandered 
along the banks of the river, from one desolated home 
to another. In scarcely more than two or three still 
burned the sweet fires of home, and those that were for- 
saken had been plundered by the Indians, fresh traces 
of whose presence were daily visible. The good village 
cure, beloved of all, and the influence of whose noble 
life and teachings represented all that was best in the 
Catholic church, was gone too. Torn by contending 
duties lie had decided that the forlorn exiles needed his 


26 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


ministrations more than those still remaining in their 
homes, and had followed them to French soil. 

‘ 1 Le bon Dieu knows, my child ! ’ ’ Gretin answered 
at last, in the dull tones of hopeless old age. 

“Surely 31. V Abbe would not permit that — that 
’ ’ her voice broke. 

“That his fair young life should be destroyed by 
those savages? No, my child, no — that can I not be- 
lieve. Moreover, Jean Jacques, Paul Pierre — they 
were his friends among the Micmacs. And 31. V Abbe 
— no, he would bend but not break the boy.” 

There was a long silence. The evening dews, tears 
of the soil for the banishment of her children, sparkled 
on the wide meadows beneath the now rising moon. 

* ‘ Margot, we can no longer resist the priest’s will, ” he ' 
said again, ‘ ‘ and alone we are not able to till the land, 
so that it may bring forth crops for our sustenance. ’ 5 

But a burst of tears from the girl interrupted him. 
Flinging herself at his feet, she threw her arms around 
him and hid her face in his breast. 

“ Gran’ -per e, mon gran’ -pere ! ” she cried, “ I will 
work ! I can plow — I can dig ! I am young it is 
true, and small, but we women of Acadie are strong. 
You shall care for the house — it is I who will till the 
land. Let us not leave Acadie. Gabriel may return 
— sick, wounded, who knows? and we gone, the house 
desolate ! If 31. V Abbe sets his Micmacs on us to drive 
us forth, I will plead with them. They have heark- 
ened to me before now, they will again. If not, then 
we must go forth indeed, but not yet, not yet ! ” 







“ Suddenly the girl raised her head.” 


Page 27 











GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


27 


Weeping they clung together. Suddenly the girl 
raised her head. A moment more she was on her feet, 
gazing intently into the black depths of the forest. 

“ Gran’-pere , ” she whispered, “ do you hear?” 

“ Only the night-hawk, my daughter.” 

“Ah, but the night-hawk ! Many a time have I 
heard my cousin call thus in the woods in our happy 
play times. There, again ! ’ ’ 

Like an arrow from a bow she was gone, speeding 
through the long grass, but keeping well in the shadows. 

The old man rose with difficulty. He was weary 
and cramped with the long day’s work, of which since 
his grandson began to grow toward manhood his share 
had until these evil days been slight. As the minutes 
crawled by and Margot did not return, anxiety swelled 
to terror. The Indians — they did not all know 
her. With shaking hand he took his ancient-fowl- 
ing piece from the peg where it hung. 

His vision was dim, and as he started blindly on his 
way, he found himself arrested, gently pushed back 
into the hut, the door barred, the small windows shut- 
tered. All was done quickly and quietly, as by an 
accustomed hand. Pine cones were thrown upon the 
half-dead fire, there was a blaze of light, and Pierre 
Gretin fell into the arms of • his grandson. 

But joy sobered as Gretin and Margot surveyed their 
recovered treasure by the additional illumination of 
home-made tallow dips. Gabriel, indeed, was but the 
ghost of his former buoyant, radiant self. Only the 
blue, brave light in his eyes betrayed the old Gabriel. 


28 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


His cheeks were hollow, his frame gaunt, his home-spun 
clothing torn to rags. 

“ That I can soon remedy,” said the little housewife 
to herself, as she thought of the new suit in the oaken 
chest, set aside for his first communion. 

Strange scars were on his legs and hands, and these 
Margot soon fell to examining, a growing dread in her 
face, though he strove to draw his fingers from her 
clasp. 

‘ ‘ Heed them not, ma cousine, ’ ’ he said tenderly. 
* £ I have weightier matters to speak of with thee and 
with the gran’ -per e.” 

* ‘ Speak on, my son. ’ ’ 

“Nay,” said the girl quickly, “let him rest and 
eat first. ’ ’ 

Glancing into the pot, which hung, French fashion, 
over the fire, she added to it shredded meat and vege- 
tables until the whole was a savory mess. While she 
prepared it, the boy sat with his head in his hands, a 
man before his time. 

The meal ended and the kitchen restored to its 
wonted order, Margot, in whom, as in all Acadians, 
the frugal spirit of the French peasant prevailed, extin- 
guished the tallow dips ; then, taking her seat on a 
cricket at her grandfather’s knee, she eagerly awaited 
Gabriel’s story. 

This story of Gabriel’s was no easy one to tell ; this 
he felt himself. In the brief time that he had been 
absent from his home, brief in actual duration, but to 
himself and to his loved ones so long, life had acquired 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


29 


for him a wholly different meaning. Hitherto his na- 
ture had been as plastic material prepared for some 
mold, the selection of which had not as yet been made 
known. He knew now for what he was destined, and 
was conscious that the boy was rapidly hardening into 
the man he was intended to be. The fanaticism per- 
mitted in one of its most potent instruments had upset 
his faith in the form of religion in which he had been 
reared, and he was too young for the tolerance that is 
often the fruit of a larger experience. Moreover, 
strange as it may seem, there was in this generous, 
tender-hearted youth elements not unlike those in the 
relentless and vindictive priest. The fanatic and the 
enthusiast not seldom spring from the same root. But 
how to explain to these two, who, dear to him as they 
were, could not be expected to share his convictions ? 
At last he roused himself. 

‘ * First, dear gran 1 -per e , 1 ’ he said, ‘ ‘ I must learn 
how it fares with you and with ma cousine. God grant 
that you be left here in peace ! ’ ’ 

There was a pause. They too had their difficulties. 
How could they tell him that Le Loutre might even 
yet have spared them their home had it not been for 
what he called “the contumacy of that young heretic ” ? 
Margot’s woman’s wit, however, came to the rescue and 
she told simply and truthfully the tale of the gradual 
banishment of their people. “We still are spared,” 
she concluded, “ but it cannot be for long.” 

“Then my sms were not visited on your head,” said 
Gabriel eagerly. 


30 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


“As others fare, so must we in the end,” was the 
somewhat evasive reply. “But come, my cousin, to 
thy tale. ’ ’ 

So Gabriel began, but when he came to the scene of 
the torture, hesitated. Margot’s indignant sympathy, 
however, divined what he would not tell. 

“ Was it very bad, dear cousin?” she cried, the 
tears in her dark eyes, as she pressed his hand. 

“No, not so very bad,” he replied with forced light- 
ness. “The friendly Micmacs rebelled, and I do not 
believe M. V Abbe ever pushes things to extremes at 
first. He strove only to scare me into submission to 
his will, and I have got a bit of tough English oak 
somewhere in me that doesn’t bend as do tender Aca- 
dian saplings.” He smiled down into his cousin’s wet 
eyes. “Don’t weep, little cousin. See, I am well; 
none has hurt me.” 

“Oh, but thou art thin, thou art pale, thou art 
changed,” she cried, breaking down completely. “ Oh, 
mon gran’-pbre, is it that we must love and obey so 
cruel a priest ? ’ ’ 

The old man’s trembling hand smoothed her hair ; 
he could not speak yet. 

‘ ‘ Mon gran ’ -pere, Margot, ’ ’ Gabriel said bravely, 

‘ ‘ I have that to tell you which may grieve your hearts ; 
but my mind is made up. I have, indeed, changed 
since we parted. I am no longer a Christian as your 
church holds such.” 

‘ ‘ Your church ! ’ ’ This could mean but one thing — 
their Gabriel was then, in truth, a heretic ! But the 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


31 


low-breathed ‘ ‘ Helas, mon fils, ’ ’ which escaped the old 
man was not echoed by his granddaughter. She raised 
her head and looked at her cousin, who had sprung 
to his feet and was pacing the floor like a young lion. 

“No,” he cried. “ If to do such in the name of the 
Father and the gentle mother of a gentle Saviour is to 
be a Christian, then am I none ! If to be a missionary 
of the church is to spur poor savages on to be more 
cruel, more treacherous, than in their ignorance they 
were, then heaven grant that no holy church may ever 
receive them ! If to be false to every given vow, to 
strike the enemy in the back, to hate even as do the 
devils in hell, is to be a Christian, then no Christian 
am I ! ” 

He returned to the fireside, and sinking upon the 
high-backed settle, relapsed into reverie so profound as 
to become oblivious of his surroundings. 

“And if thou dost proclaim thyself a heretic, mon 
fils,” observed Gretin at length fearfully, “ what is to 
become of us ? ” 

“Alas, at best what can I do for you, honored gran' - 
plre f Is not even now that vindictive priest on my 
track ? And may it not be that he may yet take my 
life because I will not aid him in his treacherous plot ? 
I have escaped him once, but only by the aid of Jean 
Jacques, and now that gold has come from France, 
Jean Jacques will love French crowns better than my 
life.” 

“ M. V Abbe never takes lives, my son,” said the old 
man rebukingly. 


32 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


4 4 And why not, mon gran ’ -fore ? May it not have 
been because none dared oppose him ? ’ ’ 

Gretin sighed heavily, but made no reply, and Ga- 
briel continued : 

44 All here are his tools, the Acadians from fear, the 
Indians for gold. I am no tool, and for that, if needs 
be, I must suffer. But you — ah, my beloved and 
dear ! ” He sank impulsively upon his knees, and 
throwing his arm around his cousin and leaning his 
head on his grandsire’s knees, yielded himself to an 
abandonment of grief. 

Finally Margot spoke, quietly and decisively. 

44 Dear Gabriel, thou canst indeed do nothing for us 
and thou art in peril here. Thou must make thy way 
with all speed to thy friend, the New England pr&tre ; 
he will succor and aid thee. Thou art like the Hugue- 
nots and the Puritans ; thou wilt have to suffer for 
conscience’ sake.” 

She smiled bravely, but her lips trembled. 

44 But you,” Gabriel groaned, 44 you ! ” 

The poor boy was passing through that bitterest trial 
of all, experiencing what to all martyrs is worse than 
any fiery stake, the helpless, incomparable anguish of 
bringing suffering on those dearer to him than life. 
What if in the saving of his own soul alive he should 
have to trample over the bodies of the beloved? Might 
not his course be the very acme of self-seeking ? What 
recompense could the martyr’s crown confer for this 
mortal agony of vicarious suffering ? 

But Margot’s steady, quiet voice w 7 ent on ; her soft 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


33 


touch was on his head. Timid she might be, but ah, 
brave, brave too ! 

“ He will not hurt us, the abbe , ” she said. “Do 
not fear, my cousin. If thou dost stay with us, thou 
wilt have to act a lie every day. Even should he re- 
frain from pressing thee into his schemes, he will watch 
thee, and not one single ordinance of our church wilt 
thou be permitted to elude. He can be very hard, our 
abbe. No, dear Gabriel, vain is it to strive to serve 
two masters ; if of our faith, thou must remain here 
and profess it ; if of the other, thou must go.” 

She averted her head and further speech failed her. 

At that moment there was a violent knocking on the 
door. Gabriel was on his feet at once, alert, resolute 
once more. 

“ I knew he would track me,” he said, “ but I had 
hoped not to be found here, and neither will I. Adieu, 
mon gran’-pere. God in very truth keep you ! Mar- 
got, the small door into the cowpen.” 

At a word from the girl, Gretin crept into his cov- 
ered bed in the wall, while she and Gabriel slipped 
noiselessly away through a back entrance. 

“ Let us go with thee, dear cousin,” implored Mar- 
got, as they paused for an instant among the cows, her 
fears for him making her once more timid. 

4 ‘ Ma cherie, no ! Ah, my best beloved ! ’ ’ 

He clasped her to his breast, kissed her passionately, 
as never before, on brow, cheek, and lips, and was 
gone. 

On the house door the knocking continued, and the 
c 


34 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


gran’-pere’s voice was heard in the accents of one 
aroused from sleep. Margot, hastily composing her 
features and trusting that the traces of tears would not 
be visible in the light of the dying fire, re-entered the 
kitchen and, after much fumbling and delay, opened 
the door. Without stood Le Loutre, accompanied as 
usual by his “lambs.” Without deigning to address 
her, he snatched a torch from one of the Indians and, 
striding into the small house, explored every corner. 
Even the cowpen was not left unsearched. On pretense 
of arranging the bed-covering, Margot bent over her 
grandfather. 

“Delay him if you can,” she breathed; “every 
moment is precious. ’ ’ 

But the priest was already at her side. 

“Where is the malicious heretic, at last avowed?” 
he thundered. 

“Ah, where is he, M. V Abbe /” exclaimed Gretin, 
raising himself on his elbow, endued with a sudden 
excess of courage at the thought of Gabriel wandering 
alone through the perils of the forest. “ Where is the 
boy, the son of my loved and only daughter, my heart’s 
treasure ? Where is he, Gabriel, staff of my old age ? ’ ’ 

For a moment the furious priest was confounded. 
The color mounted to his dark cheeks and he hesitated. 
The old man’s aspect was almost threatening, and if 
fanaticism had left Le Loutre a conscience, it surely 
spoke then. But the momentary weakness passed. 

“And thou wouldst shelter a heretic,” he said 
sternly, * 1 recusant son of Mother Church that thou 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


35 


art ! But she chastens, if in love, yet she chastens. 
Hope not for further grace. As for the boy, he must 
be brought back into the fold . This I have ere now 
told thee, and I repeat it. Me, the chosen instrument 
of God and the king, he cannot escape. Faithless as 
thou mayst be, thou canst not keep -him from me. This 
very night he shall be forced back to his duty. As for 
thyself and the girl ” 

He paused, the terrible look in his eyes. But it was 
enough. Further words were unnecessary. And as 
the torches danced away like fireflies into the forest 
shades, Margot, now completely exhausted, flung her- 
self down beside the old man and, with an arm about 
his neck, wailed : “ Gran 1 -pere, my gran’-plre, they 
will find him ! ” 

And the hopeless response came: “ Ma fille, they 
cannot fail to do it. Let us pray.” 

Feebly he arose, and hand in hand the helpless pair 
kneeled before the image of the sorrowing Christ. 


CHAPTER III 


C ONCEALED ill the branches of a wide-spreading 
oak, Gabriel hoped against hope to remain hidden 
from the Micmac trailers, now close on his heels. 
White men his woodcraft would enable him to elude, 
but Indians hardly. His very breathing seemed as if 
it must betray him. 

Listening thus, every nerve an ear, he heard a slight 
sound in the deep glade beneath. To the novice it 
might mean anything or nothing ; to his practised un- 
derstanding it was the crack of a twig beneath a human 
foot. 

Carefully he surveyed his position. The moon, 
though near its setting, still afforded light sufficient to 
betray him should its rays fall on face or hands. Then, 
for the first time, he perceived that, as he lay face 
downward on a branching limb, the hand with which 
he sustained himself was palely illuminated ; the moon, 
in her swift course, had penetrated the sheltering foli- 
age. What should he do? To move meant certain 
discovery. He resolved to lie still, the chances being 
slightly in favor of absolute stillness. Then he became 
aware that some one was standing beneath the tree. 
Now in actual fact he held his breath ; for though his 
sight could not pierce the leaves, every other sense told 
him that it was an Indian. But his hopes were vain. 
36 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


37 


Another moment and he knew the tree was being 
climbed. 

As the green grasshopper clings, even after detection, 
blindly to the leaf that it so closely resembles, so Gabriel 
clung instinctively to his branch, and even when a 
sinewy hand grasped his ankle, made no sign. The 
forest-bred boy obeyed the instinct of all woodland 
creatures; besides, there was one hope left, faint as it was, 
and were he to move or speak he might lose even that. 

“Wild Deer?” 

“Jean Jacques? ” 

Wild Deer was the name by which the friendly 
Micmacs called him. Now for the test. Was the 
Indian true ? 

“Wild Deer, the great medicine man of your tribe 
is on the trail. ” 

‘ ‘ I know. What wilt thou do ? Betray me to 
him?” 

The low-breathed question and answer swept quickly 
back and forth. 

“ The red man betrays not him who is skilled as 
himself.” 

“ What wilt thou do then? ” 

“Let Wild Deer descend and follow his friend.” 

Gliding to the ground with a noiselessness and rapid- 
ity equal to that of the Indian, Gabriel, at a sign from 
his companion, followed him on his sinuous track. Was 
he his friend ? He had dwelt too long with the red 
men not to dread the treachery which is the inevitable 
consequence of centuries of savage and relentless war- 


38 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


fare, tribe with tribe, red man with white man. Nev- 
ertheless, he pushed on ; what else could he do ? 

The gray dawn peered beneath a veil of cloud before 
they paused on the edge of the forest. Gabriel’s pow- 
ers were well-nigh spent ; ill treatment and privation 
had sapped his young strength. The spot where they 
had halted was the last camping-ground of the Micmacs. 
Going to a hollow tree, Jean Jacques drew from it 
some strips of sun-dried beef and a few dried leaves, 
which Gabriel recognized as those of the coca plant, on 
which, when unable to obtain food, the red man makes 
arduous journeys, lasting for days together. 

‘ ‘ Eat, ’ ’ he said with native brevity ; ‘ ‘ then put 
these leaves in thy mouth and chew them as we go. 
The strength of the pale face will come back to him as 
that of the young eagle.” 

Gabriel obeyed, imitating the taciturnity of the 
Indian. When at length, refreshed and strengthened, 
he arose to prosecute his attempt to reach Halifax, Jean 
Jacques, with a grunt, declined not only to be thanked, 
but to leave him. 

“ I too go to the new fort,” he remarked calmly. 

“ Thou wilt go ? ” 

A sudden suspicion overwhelmed him. Could it be 
that his apparent rescue was one of the priest’s deep 
laid plots? That Jean Jacques, heavily bribed with 
French gold, was but carrying out some scheme of 
treachery which should involve the defenders of the fort 
as well as himself? The supposition was an only too 
plausible one, given such a man as Le Loutre and such 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


39 


lucre-lovers as the Micmacs. The Indian’s impervious 
countenance revealed nothing. To question him would 
be vain. Well, he must go forward and hope for the 
best ; no other course was open to him. 

Silently, at the steady Indian dog-trot, the pair 
pressed on. As mile after mile was covered, Gabriel’s 
strength seemed to renew itself, even, indeed, as that of 
the young eagle ; hope revived within his breast, min- 
istering to his keen vitality ; and when at last the 
Indian paused, and kneeling, examined in ominous 
silence a bent twig here, a crushed blade of grass there, 
and finally laid his ear to the ground, Gabriel was in- 
clined to scout Jean Jacques’ fears and his own sus- 
picions. 

‘ ‘ Feet have passed this way, ’ ’ muttered Jean Jacques, 
“feet of red men, with them a white man. Let Wild 
Deer put his head to the ground, and he will hear them 
yet. But our trail they have lost. They wander, 
seeking it. ’ ’ 

Striking in the opposite direction, they proceeded 
cautiously. Then again the Indian stopped and listened 
after his manner. 

“They come,” he said, as he once more arose, 

1 ‘ many of them. They go to the fort ; but they will 
not go until they find Wild Deer to carry him with 
them. But Jean Jacques will be his guide, he shall 
escape them.” 

At nightfall they crept beneath a pile of brush and 
leaves, concealing the deserted lair of a gray fox, and 
Gabriel, worn out now, and happy in the thought of at 


40 


GABKIEE THE ACADIAN 


sunrise being free to abandon the circuitous route and 
making straight for the fort, but a few miles distant, 
soon fell asleep. 

But there is many a slip, etc. It seemed to him that 
he had slept but five minutes when he was aroused by 
a flash of light in his eyes, and he opened them to find 
himself in the grasp of half a dozen Micmacs, behind 
them Le Loutre. Jean Jacques was nowhere to be 
seen. Speechless, he looked from one dark face to 
another ; every one of them he knew to be unfriendly, 
or at least corrupted by French gold. His young heart 
felt nigh to bursting. So near the goal and to be 
thwarted thus ! So near the new life, in which, in his 
youthful enthusiasm, he believed he could be true 
to the highest that was in him, true to his grandfather 
and Margot, vaguely but ardently hopeful that he 
could save them. And Jean Jacques ? Had he indeed 
betrayed him ? 

It was one of those moments of discouragement in 
which even the falsity of an untutored savage can pierce 
the very soul. 

“Bind him, and bring him on ! ” was the priest’s 
stern command. 

Bewildered by fatigue, sick with disappointment, 
Gabriel offered no resistance, uttered no word. He was 
dragged about a mile and then dropped rudely by the 
embers of a camp-fire. Waving his “lambs” to a 
distance, Le Loutre addressed him in accents cold as 
steel and merciless as the hand that drives it home. 

“ Have I not told thee that thou canst not escape 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


41 


me, I, the chosen instrument of God to bring stragglers 
back into the fold ? My duty is clear. He who will 
not bend must break.” 

He paused, but his hearer made no sign. 

“ Thou knowest what is demanded of thee. This day 
my converts go on a friendly mission to the new fort. 
Must I instruct thee yet again in thy duty? ” 

He waited for the response that came not. Gabriel 
lay as if life itself were already crushed out of him ; 
every drooping finger of his strong, right hand nerveless, 
hopeless. Yet must there have been something of tacit 
resistance in his air, for Le Loutre continued in tones 
of exasperation : 

‘ ‘ Opposition will avail thee nothing, and for thy 
grandfather and cousin it will mean suffering and 
privation beyond their wildest dreams. Every Acadian 
is rewarded according to his loyalty to the king and to 
the true church. Hitherto I have spared them, but it 
is I alone who have the ordering of their going, and of 
the new home to which they journey. The gran’-phre 
is old, Margot more tender than is the habit of Acadian 
maidens, yet must the church not stay her hand when 
the saving of souls is in the balance. She must make 
example, she must discipline. I am no man meting 
out man’s justice,” continued the fanatic, raising his 
hands solemnly, “ but chosen of the church to execute 
her righteous will. This being so, thou wilt find me 
relentless in my duty.” 

Gabriel’s benumbed senses, together with the spirit 
that in some natures never slumbers long, were re- 


42 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


awakening. He found himself wondering why this 
autocratic priest, before whom all trembled, should find 
it necessary to explain his conduct to a mere boy. 
Then, as mental vigor returned more fully, he drew his 
exhausted body into a sitting posture, and said : 

“if. V Abbe commands that I shall go with these 
savages ? ’ ’ 

“ Converts to the true church,” interrupted Le Loutre 
imperiously. “ Who dares call baptized Christians sav- 
ages ? ’ ’ 

“I name them according to their deeds,” continued 
Gabriel, with a certain manly dignity which had come 
to him of late. ‘ ‘ Holy water on the brow does not 
change the heart.” 

“ It doth not ! ” cried the priest in the same tone. 
“Jean Jacques is a pervert — perverted by thyself from 
the true faith.” 

“Yet he has played me false,” exclaimed Gabriel 
bitterly. 

“ Dull-witted boy ! Knowest thou no better than 
that?” 

Could it be ? AY as Jean Jacques faithful ? Not only 
that, but free to help him again ? Hope kindled once 
more within his breast. Then he rose to his feet and 
looked straight into the eyes of Le Loutre. 

“It is the will of M. V Abbe ” he said again, “ that 
I should go to Halifax on this ‘ friendly ’ mission ? The 
Micmacs will camp without the fort, I shall be received 
within, and can then learn more than I know already 
of its defenses and of the habits of its defenders. The 



“ * M. l’Abb6 commands 


Pasre 42, 































. 


















































































































































p ' 
• • — 







r * ' 



» ' / •• 
• « • • 


' t « » * 


• 1 


* - i • 

'• 

















GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


43 


Indians, being friendly, will pass in and out with me, 
two or three perhaps only ; I am to guide them with 
what secrecy I may from one portion of the stronghold 
to another, and they in turn will pass on their knowl- 
edge to the waiting horde concealed within reach, and 
then at a given signal the attack is to be made, and, 
they and I alike familiar with the weak points of the 
fort and other matters, they will easily gain entrance, 
and put all to fire and sword ? Is this the will of 
M. V Abbe ?' ’ 

Le Loutre looked back at him consideringly. Keen- 
sighted, as he was, he scarce knew what to make of this 
boy. Then he said : 

“You swear it in the name of the Holy Mother of 
God?” 

‘ ‘ I promise nothing, ’ ’ said Gabriel steadily. 

“ Then,” cried the priest with a sudden burst of 
fury, “remember this: If thou dost play the trai- 
tor ’ 5 

“ He can be no traitor,” Gabriel interposed, with a 
calm which compelled a hearing, “ who gives no prom- 
ise, except that if it be within his power he will defeat 
the plot laid.” 

“ No matter what thou art,” burst forth Le Loutre 
again, “ thou art false to the faith in which thou hast 
been reared. But forget not that thy course will be 
watched, and that if my commands are not obeyed thy 
grandfather and cousin will pay the forfeit — yes, with 
their very lives. Dost hear me? ” 

Gabriel, pale before, whitened now to the lips. But 


44 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


lie kept his steadfast eyes on the priest’s face as he re- 
plied : 

“1 hear, M. V Abbe” 

The blue waves of the harbor of Chebucto leaped 
gayly landward before the strong south wind. On the 
wooden ramparts of Halifax the sentinels kept watch, 
specks of scarlet betwixt the blue of sea and sky, 
moving, automaton -like, on their appointed rounds. 
But the automatons possessed eyes, nevertheless, and 
those directed north were riveted on a band of Indians 
who, since sunrise, had been busy getting into camp 
about half a mile from the post. 

The British colony at Halifax was now, counting 
those within and without its walls, over three thousand 
strong, and though the settlers without had been sorely 
harassed by Indians — whom the governor was beginning 
at last to suspect were set on by the French, despite 
the peace nominally existing between the two nations — 
they continued to thrive and increase. The Indians at 
present camping so near were soon recognized as Mic- 
macs, who had made a solemn treaty with the British 
the previous year, consequently their appearance created 
but slight interest. 

In his own simple apartments the “ brave, sensible 
young man, of great temper and good nature,” was 
writing, with what for him was unusual irascibility, 
a letter to the Bishop of Quebec. But his patience 
had been sorely tried. “Was it you,” he wrote, 
“who sent Le Loutre as a missionary to the Mic- 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


45 


macs ? And is it for their good that he excites 
these wretches to practise their cruelties against those 
who have shown them every kindness ? The conduct of 
the priests of Acadia has been such that by command 
of his majesty I have published an order declaring that 
if any one of them presumes to exercise his functions 
without my express permission he shall be dealt with 
according to the laws of England.” 

Having finished his letter he gave orders that the 
French priest, Girard, should be invited to a final 
audience. Obedient to the summons, an elderly man, 
of strong and gentle countenance, made his appearance. 
Bidding him be seated, Cornwallis addressed him cour- 
teously in French. 

“ M. le Cure,” he began, “you know that you are 
one of very few who have been required to take the 
oath to do nothing contrary to the interests of the 
country I serve. Is not that so ? 

The priest bent his head with quiet dignity. 

‘ ‘ I believe now that of you it was not necessary to 
exact it.” 

“Pardon, M. le Gouverneur , of me it was not ex- 
acted. I rendered it. ” 

“ Pardon, M. le Cure , you are in the right. I owe 
you an apology.” 

‘ ‘ Monsieur has nothing for which to make amends. 
He is all honor and generosity.” 

Cornwallis bowed in acknowledgment of the compli- 
ment, then continued : 

‘ ‘ There are many, however, of whom it would be as 


46 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


well for these simple Acadians as for helpless English 
settlers that the oath of allegiance to my king were 
demanded. This Abbe Le Loutre, for example, he is a 
very firebrand. Nay, rather a wolf in sheep’s cloth- 
ing, working havoc in the poor, silly flock. Know 
you him, M. le Cure f ” 

The priest lowered his eyes. 

“ M. le Gouverneur, ’ ’ he replied in a constrained 
tone, “it is contrary to the habit of my order to say 
of our superior, He is wrong or he is right. ’ ’ 

“Once more, pardon!” cried the younger man 
frankly. “ I made an error. Tell me, M. Girard, on 
your return to Cobequid, what course will you pursue ? ’ ’ 

“In accordance with my oath, M. le Gouverneur , I 
shall inform M. Longueuil that I can make no effort 
to prevent my people from submitting to you, accord- 
ing to their own desires. ’ ’ 

“ And what, think you, your governor will reply? ” 

“ I know not, monsieur, but it is probable that I 
shall be compelled to retire from my position.” 

The two men, of different creed and antagonistic 
blood, looked each other full in the face. Then, with 
manifestations of mutual respect, clasped hands. 

“Adieu, M. le Cure. ,} 

‘ ‘ Adieu, M. le Gouverneur. The saints have you in 
their holy keeping, and bring you to the shelter of the 
true fold. ’ ’ 

But as Girard turned to go, Cornwallis spoke again : 

“ M. Girard, there is a lad here, half Acadian, half 
British, know you aught of him ? ” 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


47 


“ Gabriel — ah, the hard name ! I cannot call it.” 

“ Yet did the name and he that originally bore it 
sail once with your own conquering William from the 
land of your birth. Champernowne — it is a Norman 
name — and you, you yourself come from la belle Nor- 
mandie, is it not so, M. le Cure f ” 

* ‘ It is true, monsieur. But this boy, I have heard 
of him from the cure at Port Royal. He is a good 
boy, though, alas, no longer of our faith.” 

“ He is to be trusted ? ” 

“ So I have been assured, monsieur .” 

Meanwhile another scene was being enacted under 
the eastern rampart. “Jn the name of the Father, 
the Son, and the Holy Ghost, Gabriel, I baptize thee.” 

The brief ceremony was at an end, and the few wit- 
nesses departed. 

Feeling somehow encouraged by this open profession 
of his inward convictions to thread the difficult maze 
that lay before- him, Gabriel joined the New England 
minister at his frugal meal, and then at his advice be- 
took himself to an upper chamber to rest his weary 
body. But rest to aching heart and tired brain would 
not come. In whom should he confide ? What should 
he do ? Even his knowledge of the English tongue 
was limited, though it fitted readily to his own, and he 
felt that he would soon be master of it. Of but one 
thing was he certain ; come what would, he must now 
cast in his lot with his father’s race. There were ways 
by which he could earn his bread — he, active and vig- 
orous and accustomed to labor. And the colonists, 


48 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


they would need defenders ; he could handle a musket 
with the best, and endure long marches. Then, with 
a groan he turned his face to the wall. Margot — the 
grandfather ! Like a knife turning in his heart the 
harrowing dread would not be stilled. Nothing could 
be done, no revelation of intended treachery made, 
until these two were beyond the reach of Le Loutre 
and his terrible threats. And the days would slip past 
as the hours were slipping now. Could, would, the 
English governor help them ? Then slowly, like swal- 
lows sailing circlewise ever nearer and nearer their rest- 
ing place, his revolving thoughts settled down upon 
their nest. Yes, there was one hope. He sprang from 
the bed and was out of the house in less time than it 
takes to write the words. 

“M. Girard, M. Girard,” he said to himself as he 
hastened along. But when he arrived at the priest’s 
lodging, he was informed that M. le Cure had started 
two hours before for Cobequid. 

The woman of the house, mother herself of stalwart 
sons, felt her heart stir in pity for this splendid -looking 
youth, with the “air noble” and the sad face. She 
was a former parishioner of M. Girard, an Acadian 
come hither from Cobequid. 

“ But see,” she said, following him out of the door, 
“if. le Cure was to tarry awhile at the Indian camp. 
Maybe he is still there.” 

With a word of thanks Gabriel hastened away. Yet 
back to the Indian camp, that nest of traitors. There 
was, however, no help for it. In any case he would 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


49 


have to return to the camp at nightfall, for he was 
closely watched, and his plans were not yet ripe for de- 
fying his dusky guardians, two or three of whom on 
the morrow expected to be conducted within the walls 
of Halifax. To obtain private speech with the cure 
would no doubt be difficult, but it must be done. For- 
tune favored him. As he skirted the low hills to the 
eastward of the camp, watching his opportunity, he 
beheld a man in priestly garb, escorted by some Cobe- 
quid Acadians, who had voluntarily visited Halifax to 
take the new oath of allegiance, making his way across 
the levels in the direction of the forest. Girard’s 
adieu to Le Loutre’s “lambs” was, then, made. 
Weary and spent as he was, Gabriel put forth his last 
remaining strength and ran swiftly forward to inter- 
cept the party. He accomplished his object, and stand- 
ing respectfully before the priest returned his gentle 
greeting. 

“And who art thou, my son ? ” 

‘ ‘ My name, mon plre, is Gabriel, grandson of Pierre 
Gretin, habitan of Port Royal.” 

A long-drawn “Ah!” escaped M. Girard’s lips. 
Then taking the boy by the arm he led him out of 
earshot, and seating himself on a small hillock, said 
kindly : 

“ Rest, my son. The sun is yet some hours high, 
and thou art weary, and hast a tale to tell.” 

“ Oh, mon pere! ” cried Gabriel, then stopped, un- 
able to proceed. 

This son of a mixed race could be steadfast as well 

D 


50 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


as brave, but that intense vitality which sends the 
warm life-blood coursing through the veins like a torrent 
instead of as a calm and sluggish stream, even while 
acting as a spur to noble endeavor and keeping the 
heart forever young, exacts also its penalties. Now 
that the moment had arrived on which all his hopes 
hung, Gabriel was past speech. He lay face downward 
on the short turf, struggling with a burst of passionate 
tears that would not be repressed. 

“Weep, my son, weep,” said the kind old man, lay- 
ing his hand on the fair head, “thou hast endured 
much, and thou art but a lad. Moreover, thou hast 
this day solemnly abjured thy mother’s faith. I re- 
proach thee not, but for a youth such as thou, thou 
didst take upon thyself a grave responsibility.” 

But Gabriel was pulling himself together, and pres- 
ently he sat up and shook the curls back from his 
eyes. 

“ Mon per e,” he said, still clinging to the old loved 
title familiar to him from earliest childhood, “that I 
know ; I considered long ; and forget not that the faith 
to which I have turned was the faith of my father. 
But it is not of myself I would speak, it is of those 
dearer to me than life.” 

Then briefly he narrated the events that had oc- 
curred, his forced abandonment of his grandfather and 
cousin, their desolate and helpless condition, and the 
abbe’s threats should he fail in the task demanded of 
him. 

“And this task I cannot and will not fulfill,” 


con- 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


51 


eluded Gabriel firmly; ‘ 1 then should I be traitor in- 
deed.’ ’ 

M. Girard’s face had grown very sad. The conduct 
of Le Loutre had caused him and many another gentle- 
hearted priest much sorrow. Yet he was the superior ; 
his authority could not be questioned. He remained 
silent for a while ; then spoke, not without hesitation. 

“ My son,” he said, “ there is a way, but even that 
way is not without difficulties. Thy cousin — Margot — 
our Acadian youth are often householders at thine age. 
Yes, I know, those of English blood are more back- 
ward in such matters, but there must be true affection 
betwixt you, and for thy wife she is altogether suitable. 
Thus thou couldst protect her and the gran’-pere also. 
The saints forbid that I should encourage a union be- 
twixt a heretic and a daughter of the church were 
there any other way, and did I not hope much from 
her influence. Wives have brought erring husbands 
back to the true fold ere now, and thou art scarce ex- 
perienced enough to have embraced for reasons that will 
endure another faith. It was resentment, not conviction, 
that led thee astray. 

“ Among the Acadians protected by the fort the fol- 
lowers of the Holy Catholic Church dwell in peace, 
ministered to by priests who have taken the oath of 
allegiance to the English king. There, with Margot 
for thy wife, thou wilt return to the true faith.” 

The good old priest, pleased with the future his im- 
agination had created, rambled on. But after the first 
Gabriel hardly heard him. Margot his wife ! The hot 


52 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


blood flamed to cheek and brow, then the flash faded, 
leaving him paler than before. Who was it that dared 
thus to handle the sweet familiar affection, from whose 
leaves the delicate bud, destined in the fullness of time 
to expand into the radiant flower of a strong man’s 
love, peeped forth so timidly that he himself had not 
yet ventured to do more than glance at it and then 
avert his eyes ? When had he first known that those 
cool, green leaves held for him such a pearl of price ? 
It was at his last parting from Margot, when forced to 
flee and leave those so helpless and so dear to the mercy 
of Le Loutre. The remembrance of this parting had 
never left him, despite danger, suffering, dread, not for 
one little hour. But that any one should speak of that 
of which he had never yet spoken to himself ! Grad- 
ually, however, the sense of shock, of desecration, 
faded ; and when after a long and patient waiting M. 
Girard addressed him almost in the very words once 
used by the abbe, but with very different intention, his 
answer this time was prompt and decisive. 

‘ ‘ Mon fils, art thou boy or man ? ’ 9 

“lama man, mon per e.” 

“ Well, think on what I have said.” 

The priest gathered up his skirts and arose. 

“ But, Margot, mon pbre f Her desires may be quite 
other ” 

Gabriel’s cheeks were hot again. He faltered in his 
speech. The old man looked him up and down. Yes, 
he was a goodly youth. A queer little smile flickered 
on the priest’s thin-lipped mouth, but all he said was : 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


53 


“My son, these things arrange themselves.” 

He turned to go. Gabriel stood where he had left 
him, dreamy-eyed and quiet. Then, with a start he 
came to himself. He was allowing M. Girard to go, 
and nothing was settled. This was no time for dreams 
impossible of immediate fulfillment ; there was work to 
be done, and that quickly. With one bound he had 
overtaken the priest and laid his hand on his arm. 

“ But soon — in a day, two days — the abbe will know 
me disobedient here,” he cried. “ I cannot go to Port 
Royal, neither can the gran’-pere endure the toilsome 
journey hither. O mon per e, advise, counsel me.” 

The priest paused, irresolute. 

“ My son, in this matter of the fort I cannot advise 
thee. For the gran’-pere and the little Margot I will 
give them what protection I may. M. V Abbe visits 
Cobequid on matters concerning the oath I have taken, 
and I will represent to him that thou art one whom to 
drive is vain, but that thou canst be led. Put thy faith in 
the Holy Mother, mon fils , she will intercede for thee 
and thine. Ah, I had forgotten, thou art no longer of 
the faith. Adieu, then, poor youth.” 

With a cold chill at his heart, and a sense of desola- 
tion such as never in his young life he had felt before, 
Gabriel watched the figure of him who represented his 
last hope disappear into the now darkening shades of 
the forest. 

But sometimes it happens that hope is never so near 
us as when we deem her fled. As Gabriel slowly bent 
his steps toward the settlement by the way that he had 


54 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


come, a dusky form glided out from the hills and con- 
fronted him. 

“ I have sought Wild Deer long,” said a well-known 
voice, “ and at last I find him.” 

“ Jean Jacques.” 

‘ ‘ It is he. But say not that Jean Jacques was faith- 
less to the paleface boy. He was not. Let Wild Deer 
clasp hands with the Micmac, and all may yet be well.” 


CHAPTER IV 


N IGHT had closed in around the new fort of Hali- 
fax and upon the houses clustered about its 
walls. With a beating heart Gabriel leaned 
against the postern, waiting for the expected summons 
from the lambs of Le Loutre. What if his plans 
should fail? What if the governor’s trust in the word 
of a mere boy should falter ? What if the feet of Jean 
Jacques should waver ere the goal was reached ? 

Gabriel had followed that rarely misleading impulse 
which impels one soul of honor to confide in another, 
no matter what the dividing line between them, whether 
of sex, age, or degree. Cornwallis knew all, and Jean 
Jacques was on his way to remove the gran’ -per e and 
Margot to a place of safety, if yet there might be 
time. 

Time ! Yes, time was all that Gabriel needed for 
the escape of those whom he loved, happen what might 
to himself. Yet on his own safety theirs in part de- 
pended, he thought. How should the riddle be 
solved ? 

The peace and well-being of those two once secured, 
he would spread his untried wings and do more than 
merely dream of a new life beyond the bars of the nar- 
row cage in which his life had hitherto been passed. 
He longed to lead a man’s life, — worthy of Margot, 

55 


56 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


worthy of his dead father, — not that of a dull steer 
hitched to a plow ! 

He had not told Cornwallis that among the Mic- 
macs incited to this deed of treachery there were in all 
probability some of his own countrymen disguised as 
Indians. It was the policy of Le Loutre to induce by 
threats or bribes the more or less reluctant Acadians to 
perform such services. It was easy for the priest to 
protest in case of the capture of the Acadians that it 
was not the French who had broken the peace, but the 
inhabitants themselves, of their own free will. The 
Acadians were useful for the encouragement of the In- 
dians ; therefore were they used. Gabriel reasoned 
that not until the presence of the Acadians was discov- 
ered would the time arrive to plead for them. The 
governor was a man of kind heart as well as of good 
sense, and the boy would represent to him the sim- 
plicity and ignorance of these his country-people, who, 
although not loving those of alien blood, would assur- 
edly have lived peaceably under their rule, had it not 
been for their priest’s threats and their terror of eternal 
damnation. Gabriel knew, but would never add, that 
the cowardice of weak natures was allied with its al- 
most inevitable comrades, deceit and untruthfulness. 

Whilst Gabriel waited without, Cornwallis sat in his 
room, the tallow candles in the silver sconces brought 
from England shedding their flaring light upon his 
bowed head. He had dismissed his council and was 
alone with his secretary. His kind, manly face was 
clouded with dejection. His term of service was draw- 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


57 


ing to a close, and despite his efforts, the Acadians were 
no better off than before. Presently he arose and be- 
gan pacing the floor. 

“Poor, unhappy people!” he exclaimed. “Why 
cannot they understand that France but uses them as 
in the ancient fable the monkey used the cat ? They 
were contented enough before this priest came to scare 
their small wits out of them.” 

“Yet, my lord,” put in the secretary, “I have 
heard that the Acadians were ever a contentious race, 
given to petty strife and over fond of the law.” 

The governor smiled. 

“ And who would deny them those simple joys in 
their dull lives? Their harmless disputes kept the 
sluggish blood moving in their veins and serious trouble 
was rare. Now all is changed. If by their vacillation 
they drive us to stern courses, sad, alas, will be their 
fate. We have borne much treachery, but the end is 
at hand.” 

“ It will be well for them, my lord, if your succes- 
sor is as forbearing as yourself,” observed the secre- 
tary gathering up his papers. 

There was a knock at the door, and Gabriel’s fair 
head appeared. 

“ They are here, my lord,” he said in a low voice. 

“Do you retire, then, my son,” replied the gov- 
ernor ; * ‘ your safety demands that you should not 
know too much if it be that you still desire to go with 
these savages.” 

“ It is my only hope, my lord.” 


58 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


‘ ‘ And if you fail ? ’ ’ Cornwallis added, laying his 
hand kindly on the boy’s shoulder. “ What then ? 
Remember, that if you find neither Jean Jacques nor 
those dear to you, the country to whom your father 
proved his allegiance owes you in turn something.” 

“Whether my quest be vain or no,” and Gabriel’s 
voice faltered, * ‘ God sparing me, I shall return to 
serve under the flag for which my father fought and 
died, and in the faith that was his.” 

“ God keep you, then,” said the governor fervently, 
and turned aside. 

Great, indeed, was the astonishment of Jean Bap- 
tiste Cope, the favorite chief of Le Loutre, when he 
found himself ushered into the presence of the gov- 
ernor. He knew that the priest had commanded 
Gabriel to take advantage of his knowledge of the fort 
and of the habits of the sentries to admit the Micmacs 
into the building at the dead of night, while all save 
the sentries slept ; yet here was the dead of night and 
here stood the governor himself, cool and grave, and 
the fort was alive with wakeful and armed men. 

Cornwallis held in hand a treaty of peace, to which 
these same Micmacs had solemnly affixed their totems 
less than one year before. He was empowered by his 
government to go to almost any length in the matter of 
bribes and presents to bind the Indians to peace, as by 
such means alone was peace for the whole unhappy 
country to be secured. Le Loutre, deprived of his 
lambs, would be practically powerless to stir up strife. 
Already Cornwallis foresaw the tragic outcome of this 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


59 


long-continued trouble. The vacillations and treachery 
of the wretched Acadians rendered justice, law, and 
order alike impossible, and peace and prosperity were 
out of the question so long as they hesitated betwixt two 
masters. That Le Loutre was well paid for his services 
Cornwallis was assured. As the French minister wrote 
to Prevost, the intendant at Louisbourg, a French pos- 
session in Acadie : 1 ‘ The fear is that the zeal of Le 
Loutre and Maillard, ’ ’ another equally bigoted priest, 
‘ ‘ may carry them too far. Excite them to keep the 
Indians in our interest, but do not let them compromise 
us. Act always so as to make the English appear as 
aggressors. ’ ’ 

Bearing these things in mind, Cornwallis bent all his 
energies to winning over the Micmac lambs, and after a 
long pow-wow, the pipe of peace was again smoked and 
“ Major’ ’ Cope, as he called himself, swore for his 
tribe allegiance to the English government. Laden 
with gifts and escorted by the governor in person, they 
forsook their camp the following afternoon and em- 
barked on a small schooner, manned by an English 
crew which outnumbered the little band of savages. 
With them went Gabriel. 

Four weeks later Prevost wrote to the French minis- 
ter : “Last month the savages took eighteen English 
scalps, and M. Le Loutre was obliged to pay them 
eighteen hundred livres, Acadian money, which I have 
reimbursed him.” 

And the gran’ -plre and Margot, where were they ? 

Jean Jacques, with the subtlety of his race, did not 


60 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


go direct to Annapolis. He was aware that many of 
the Acadians had been induced by Le Loutre to leave 
the river valley and had betaken themselves to the 
larger settlement of Beaubassin ; and later rumors had 
reached him that the English were about to lay claim 
to their own and send a small force under Lawrence — 
destined to be governor of the province — to quell the 
constant disaffection created by the French troops at 
Beausejour, across the Missaguash. It was to Beau- 
^bassin, then, that the Micmac turned his steps. 

He arrived to find a scene of wild terror ; that which 
has been termed the first expulsion of the Acadians 
was in full progress. 

It was evening, and the western sky was dark with 
clouds, but as Jean Jacques, at the rapid Indian dog- 
trot, stole swiftly toward the settlement, he observed to 
himself that the villagers would have scant need of 
their tallow dips that night. In huddled groups — the 
women and children wailing, the men almost equally de- 
moralized — the unfortunate Acadians watched the de- 
struction of their homes ; not only so, but what was 
worse to the many devout among them, the same de- 
vouring flames consuming their church. And the mov- 
ing spirit of this tragic scene was their own abbe — he 
whom they had revered and wholly feared. 

The imposing figure of Le Loutre stood out in bold 
relief against the blazing edifice. Crucifix held aloft, 
he incited his Micmacs, genuine and spurious alike, to 
the dreadful deed. 

Jean Jacques mingled unremarked with his tribe. 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


61 


“It is for the good of your souls, my people ! ’ 1 
thundered the enthusiast. “You refused to obey the 
gentle voice of the true church and follow where she 
leads. Now your salvation must be wrought for you ; 
to live at ease under the protection of heretics will bring 
damnation on your souls. * ’ 

‘ ‘ Chariot, what does the priest to the palefaces ? ’ ’ 
At the sound of his own name the Acadian, disguised 
in paint and feathers, started violently, but peering into 
the face of Jean Jacques his fears were quieted. 

“ ’Tis for the good of their souls,” he repeated, as a 
sullen boy reciting a lesson. 

Seizing him by the arm, the Micmac drew him out 
of the throng. A brief colloquy ensued, punctuated 
by Jean Jacques with grunts of disapproval ; then, re- 
leasing the Acadian, he made his way unheeded in the 
commotion toward a small hut, as yet beyond the reach 
of the flames. Pushing open the door, he entered. 

Upon a couch of moss in a corner lay an old man, 
evidently dying. Beside him knelt a priest performing 
the last sacred offices of the Catholic Church, and a 
young girl, the tears upon her pale, worn cheeks. At 
a glance the Indian perceived that he had found those 
he sought — Pierre Gretin, Margot, and the good priest 
of Cobequid, M. Girard. Had the priest not been too 
much absorbed in his solemn duty to notice the new- 
comer, the significant fact that the so-called ‘ convert ’ 
failed to cross himself would not have passed unob- 
served. Jean Jacques kneeled down, however, rever- 
ently enough. 


62 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


All that night the circle of fire slowly widened, 
spreading ever more slowly because the clouds broke in 
heavy showers ; but at length, soon after the poor old 
man had breathed his last and the bright dawn was 
illuminating the clearing sky, Jean Jacques saw that 
another place of refuge must be sought from the fire. 
Gathering up the few articles the miserable hut con- 
tained, he sped with them to the shelter of the near-by 
woods, and then returning he wrapped, with character- 
istic taciturnity, the body of the gran’-pere in the 
blanket and, followed by the priest and the weeping 
Margot, bore it also away. 

“ For the sainted gran’-pere there is no consecrated 
ground ! ” moaned the girl, casting a backward glance 
at the smouldering ruins of the church. 

“ Weep not for that, my daughter,” said the priest 
in soothing tones, as he led her forward, “ for the faith- 
ful servant holy ground shall be found.” 

He drew from beneath his robe a tiny vial of holy 
water and in due form consecrated the spot of earth in 
the forest in which the gran’-pere was to rest. Then 
seizing one of the two mattocks brought from the hut, 
he set to work with the Indian. 

Few, indeed, were the tools or other possessions Pierre 
Gretin had contrived to save in their compulsory flight 
from the pleasant home in the Annapolis Valley — a 
flight which had taken place shortly after Gabriel’s de- 
parture. Even then they might have held on longer 
had not an ancient grudge on the part of a neighbor 
served to keep their obstinacy ever before the eyes of 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


63 


Le Loutre ; for it has been said that the Acadians were 
a people given to petty squabbles. At Beaubassin they 
had found refuge with many others of their race, but 
on English ground, and it was on this account that the 
bigoted priest sought to remove them. Long had the 
Acadians tacitly resisted, not out of love for the Eng- 
lish, but out of love for the peace so dear to their slug- 
gish natures and which they were permitted to enjoy 
under British rule, so long, at least, as they refrained 
from meddling or from bearing arms. 

“ No coffin, mon pere? ” said Margot timidly at last. 

For answer the priest stuck his spade into the ground ; 
the work was done. Then he pointed to a white sail 
upon the waters of Chignecto Bay. 

‘ ‘ The English ! * * she murmured awestruck ; and 
then again, “And no coffin, M. le Cure?" 

“The English are heretics, my daughter, but they 
do not desecrate graves. The body of God’s servant 
will be as safe here as in his loved Annapolis. ’ ’ 

Then Jean Jacques and M. Girard laid the body in 
the grave, and as the priest took out his breviary and 
began to read the first words of the office for the dead, 
the Micmac slipped away to the hut, thence to remove 
the scanty remains of Margot’s possessions. The short 
service over, Margot herself helped M. Girard in the 
filling of the grave. 

But even as they worked the mingled sounds of la- 
mentation and exultation drew nearer, and just as the 
grave was filled, the imperious figure of Le Loutre, his 
face alight with religious fervor, stood beside it. 


64 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


“ What doest thou here, brother ? ” he said sternly. 

“What thou seest, M. V Abbe. I lay in consecrated 
earth the remains of this our brother in the faith.” 

‘ ‘ In consecrated earth, ’ ’ cried Le Loutre. ‘ ‘ What 
earth is consecrated trod by the feet of heretics? M. 
Girard, I exhort thee, in the name of the holy mother 
of God, to remove to uncontaminated soil the body of 
this servant of the true church.” 

He pointed as he spoke to the crowd of hurrying 
fugitives pressing across the water in boats and on rafts. 

M. Girard faced his superior calmly. Well he knew 
that when, for the sake of his flock as also for the sake 
of right, he had taken that oath at Halifax, he had in- 
curred the suspicion, nay anger, of his clerical supe- 
riors ; but in the mild eyes which he raised to the fierce 
ones of the abbe there was no fear — only the firmness 
which has led many as gentle a martyr to the stake. 

“if. V Abbe knows,” he said quietly, “that the 
ground consecrated by a priest of the church becomes 
holy ground, and that to disturb the dead laid therein 
is profanation.” 

It seemed a long time to the anxious Margot before 
the silent duel was decided, for some moments elapsed 
ere either spoke again. Then the hand of Le Loutre 
slowly fell, and he averted his eyes. Not even his ar- 
rogance could forswear the tenets of the church for 
which he fought so zealously. 

“ But this maiden ? ” 

He spoke with forced indifference. 

“ She would go under my protection to Cobequid.” 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


65 


“ That shall never be ! ” exclaimed Le Loutre vio- 
lently. * 4 Is not one of the most rebellious of my flock 
her near kinsman, and shall that dangerous and sedi- 
tious youth have access to her ? If thou dost desire so 
great a wrong, M. le Cure ” 

But before M. Girard could reply Margot was on 
her knees. 

44 M. V Abbe ,” she cried, 44 only tell me that Gabriel 
— mon cousin — is alive and well, and I will ask noth- 
ing further.” 

Le Loutre looked down upon the girl in silence, a 
contemptuous pity in every line of his strongly marked 
features. 

4 4 If he is alive ? that I cannot tell thee, maiden. 
One last chance have I given the would-be renegade 
lest he become ere his time an outcast. How he hath 
borne himself, I as yet know not.” 

But M. Girard laid his hand kindly on the bowed 
dark head. 

4 4 My daughter, it is the wish of M. V Abbe that thou 
shouldst seek the French shore. Louis Herbes, thy 
neighbor, crosses even now with his wife ; it would be 
well for thee to go with these kind friends. ’ 1 

“And may I not pray one little hour beside the 
grave of him who was all of father and mother I ever 
knew ? ’ ’ said Margot in stifled tones. 

Le Loutre shrugged his shoulders ; then crossed him- 
self piously. 

44 As thou wilt, daughter. One little quarter of an 
hour will I give thee.” 

E 


66 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


He linked his arm in that of the cure and walked 
away with him. 

Scarcely had the priestly pair disappeared than the 
bushes at Margot’s side rustled and Jean Jacques crept 
into view. Seizing her wrist in his sinewy fingers he 
led her toward the shore, close to which was now 
anchoring the English ship. 

‘ ‘The Micmac will find thee a refuge, maiden,” he 
said. “ Follow Jean Jacques, and all will be well.” 

But the timid Acadian girl shrank from the Indian. 

“To go among those redcoats — and alone, Jean 
Jacques? Oh, I cannot.” 

“Did not Jean Jacques swear to Wild Deer that 
he would save his kinswoman from the cruel priest ? ” 
said the Indian with stoicism, ‘ 4 and will he not do it 
even with the strength of his arm? Neither do the 
white braves harm women.” 

“Yes — no — oh, I know not,” faltered Margot; 
4 ‘oh, leave me, Jean Jacques! Yet tell me first, 
where is Gabriel ? ” 

The Indian grunted. 

“The Great Spirit knows, not I. But, maiden, 
while we waste words the priest comes, and Jean 
Jacques is no longer of his faith ; the faith of the Mic- 
mac is the faith of the Wild Deer. Wilt thou come, 
or no ? ” 

Margot started. “ Then Gabriel is in truth a here- 
tic ! ” 

Whilst she hesitated, Jean Jacques, who was in no 
mood for delay, led her deeper into the woods. 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


67 


Now Margot, though, as we know, possessed of that 
kind of courage which will bravely choose and do the 
right, and even be physically brave for those she loved, 
was naturally timid, and now she was worn and ex- 
hausted and scarcely mistress of herself. Her inborn 
terror of Indians got the upper hand, and she uttered 
a piercing shriek, promptly stifled by the Micmac’s 
hand upon her mouth. Then he suddenly released 
her. 

“ Maiden,” he said, “ Jean Jacques can do no more. 
Thou wilt not seek safety ? So be it then. The priests 
come — Jean Jacques goes.” 

The girl made a great effort, and though still very 
pale, held out her hand with a smile to the Indian. 

“ Forgive me, Jean Jacques,” she said in tones 
which would have won forgiveness anywhere ; ‘ £ my 
heart is sick, I know not what I do. Take me whither 
thou wilt — whither Wild Deer wills.” 

“ And it shall not be to the redcoat braves,” said 
the Indian, as together they sped through the under- 
growth. “ Down beside the crimson Missaguash there 
are homes in which thy race still dwells in peace, even 
as those who remain beside the Annapolis. Thither 
will the Micmac take the maiden of Wild Deer.” 

“Halt ! ” thundered a familiar voice. “ A stray- 
ing lamb, indeed — a lamb in sore need of chastisement.” 

But for once the fierce priest had reckoned amiss. 
Quicker than the lightning’s flash the hand of the In- 
dian went to his tomahawk, his eyes glittering bale- 
fully. With a motion almost as rapid the whistle 


68 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


wherewith Le Loutre summoned his lambs was at his 
lips, while with his disengaged hand he held a crucifix 
aloft. But that almost might have ruled betwixt life 
and death had not Margot sprung forward and placed 
her slight body as a shield for the priest. 

“ Jean Jacques,” she cried, “ is this thy new faith? 
to strike the anointed of God ? ’ ’ 

The upraised tomahawk dropped, and the Indian 
grunted sullenly. But Le Loutre, the full violence of 
whose fanaticism was aroused by the ‘ perversion ’ of 
one of his lambs, was not to be so easily pacified, 
though life itself were at stake ; and the influence of 
the paleface maiden might not have availed to save 
him, so irritating was the language he used toward the 
already enraged Micmac, had not Margot, aghast at 
the prospect of beholding the abbe murdered before 
her very eyes, hastily promised to go with him whither 
he would, if so be he would permit the Indian to de- 
part in peace. 

“Swear upon the crucifix,” insisted Le Loutre, 
“ that you will follow me back to the true fold.” 

Scarcely realized by herself, the girl’s heart and 
sense, and perhaps also the recollection of Gabriel’s 
persecution, were combining to lead her in spirit away 
from that fold ; and now she drew back. 

“ I will take no oath, mon pere ,” she said gently, 
“but I promise to go with thee now ; more I cannot 
promise.” 

Then she turned to Jean Jacques, holding out her 
hand in grateful farewell. 





- 




“ But Gabriel had neither eyes nor ears for the priest.” 

Page 69. 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


69 


‘ ‘ Seek thine own safety, ’ ’ she said hurriedly, ‘ ‘ and 
if mon cousin lives, tell him ” 

Her voice broke, and she started to follow the already 
moving priest. 

1 1 If Gabriel lives ! ’ ’ cried another voice, and in a 
moment she was in the arms of its owner. 

What matter that he wore the scarlet coat of the 
British soldier, that he had forsworn the faith of their 
common forefathers? Was he not Gabriel still, the 
playmate of her childhood, and now, as she suddenly 
understood, the lover of her youth ? 

It was but for a moment, and then the priest tore 
them asunder. 

“ Heretic boy ! ” he exclaimed, regardless of the 
Micmac, who once more approached threateningly, £ ‘ re- 
lease this maiden, unworthy as thou art to touch the 
hem of her garment.” 

But Gabriel had neither eyes nor ears for the priest. 
He freed Margot from his embrace indeed, but held 
her hand firmly in his, and flushed and smiling gazed 
upon the small, downcast face bright with rapture. 

“ It is with me thou comest, is it not so, ma cousine ? ” 
he said softly, bending over her. 

She lifted her dark eyes, and for a long minute they 
rested on his, heedless of the objurgations of Le Loutre. 
Then she remembered, and her face grew suddenly so 
pale that its wanness struck Gabriel with a great fear. 
How much, ah, how much, she had suffered. He 
seemed to see it all now. 

‘ ‘ I have promised — I dare not break my sacred word. ’ ’ 


70 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


Her voice was barely audible. 

4 ‘ It is true, ’ ’ cried the priest, thrusting himself* so 
abruptly betwixt the cousins as to compel Gabriel to 
drop the hand of the girl, “ she has promised to return 
to the true fold, and as the daughter of mother church 
the touch of the heretic is defilement.” 

Gabriel lifted his fair head with the old fearless air 
that had ever exasperated the priest, while winning his 
reluctant admiration. 

“ It may be that I am no longer a boy,” he said 
coolly, “ at least I am no longer of your church ; and by 
all laws human and divine, she being my next of kin, 
this maiden has a right to my protection. Also, M. 
V Abbe, you are upon English ground.” 

He pointed to the thin line of redcoats deploying 
upon a low hill some distance away. 

The face of Le Loutre was convulsed with hatred. 

“ The more reason that we swiftly depart,” he said. 
“ Come, daughter, bear in mind thy vow.” 

Gabriel’s blue eyes flashed as Margot had so often 
seen them do in the past. She pressed by the abbe , 
and taking her cousin’s outstretched hands, said in a 
low, pursuasive voice : 

“ Gabriel, mon ami, it is even so. I promised to 
go with M. V Abbe in order to save his life ; there was 
no other way. But the promise was only for the day ; 
I would make no further vow.” 

Le Loutre watched the girl uneasily, for had she not 
refused to swear upon the cross, and what was a mere 
promise without some appeal to superstition ? He could 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


71 


not comprehend the force of a higher influence than 
that of mere symbolism. 

Pale now as Margot herself Gabriel moved aside 
with her, holding her hands, and looking down into 
the pathos of those dark eyes which possessed, even as 
in the days when they were children together, power to 
still the tumult in his breast — the rebellion of a nature 
more passionate than her own. 

* * It is but for this one day, mon Gabriel, ’ ’ she mur- 
mured. 

“But for this one day ! ” he repeated. “ And our 
force is small, and God alone knows where we may be 
on the morrow. Margot, must it be ? ’ ’ 

£ £ Gabriel, it was thou who didst first tell me, when 
thy heart began to change toward our church, that to 
break the promised word was to lie, and that to lie was 
deadly sin. Oh, mon cousin , dost thou not remember ? ” 

‘ £ I do, I do ! ” he groaned, passing his hand over 
his eyes in unbearable anguish. 

“ The priest will not harm me,” she went on, “ and 
I shall be with friends — Louis Herbes and his good 
wife. They will build them a hut close beside the 
water, so that if chance offer they may return to Eng- 
lish soil — dost hearken, Gabriel ? ’ ’ 

Gabriel’s face cleared. 

“Yes, yes, sweet cousin. I will take a boat — to- 
morrow — toward the sunsetting — remember.” 

“ It is well. But, Gabriel, go. See the lambs — 
they come . 5 ’ 

“ I fear them not,” he cried, the warrior spirit 


72 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


awake in an instant ; “let them come. Have I not 
baffled them already many times ? I would bear thee 
through a host of them, my Margot.” 

“ Go, I beseech thee ! ” she implored, a prayer in 
her eyes. 

“God keep thee in his holy keeping then, until we 
meet again, ’ ’ and seizing her in his arms he pressed his 
lips to her brow, and was gone, followed by Jean Jac- 
ques. 


CHAPTER Y 


I N that hurried meeting and parting Margot had been 
unable to learn from Gabriel the history of his life 
since they had looked upon one another last. Of 
his conversion to the Protestant faith she already knew, 
and of his sojourn in the fort of Halifax, but of the 
rest nothing. Most of all, nothing of his miraculous 
escape from the treacherous Micmacs during the voy- 
age from Halifax. Le Loutre, too well acquainted 
with his lambs to repose trust in them, and writhing 
under the knowledge that he could not bend the white 
boy to his will, had made use of a well-known half- 
breed spy to keep him informed of the doings at the 
fort. This man was instructed, should the murderous 
plot fail or the Micmacs be once more won over to the 
English, to offer the savages yet higher bribes, so that 
they should at the last moment turn again to France. 
These higher bribes of course prevailed, and reinforced 
by members of their own tribe, who boarded the ves- 
sel under cover of the darkness, the English crew was 
overpowered, and all, with one exception, massacred. 
The exception, needless to say, was Gabriel. When 
the priest heard of the boy’s escape he scarce knew 
whether to mourn or to rejoice ; for, until he had seen 
him actually in English uniform, he had still hoped to 
win over this choice spirit to his service. 


73 


74 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


Gabriel, being an expert swimmer, had contrived to 
make his way to the shore, and from thence by a toil- 
some route to the fort. Arrived there, all hesitation 
was at an end. Once and forever he threw in his lot 
with his father’s race ; and chiefly in the hope of res- 
cuing the grcm’-pere and Margot, but also because his 
natural bent was to a soldier’s career, he offered his 
services to the government. Cornwallis accepted them 
gladly, placing him advantageously from the first, and 
recommending him strongly to his successor, to make 
way for whom he shortly after crossed the ocean. 
Cornwallis carried with him at best a heavy heart, but 
it was in some degree lightened by the gratitude of the 
many to whom he had shown kindness. 

It is doubtful whether the French government in- 
variably approved of the lengths to which the zeal of 
Le Loutre carried him. At all events, the home minis- 
ters occasionally found it advisable to shut their eyes to 
his method of interpreting their instructions ; which 
were, in brief, to keep Acadie at any price, or rather 
to keep their share of the unhappy country and take 
all the rest that was not theirs. 

When Jean Jacques told Gabriel of the gran’-pb'e’s 
death, and of the privations he and the girl had en- 
dured, even the new hope for Margot could not keep 
back the tears. For Gabriel had loved and revered 
the good old man ; therefore he wept and was not 
ashamed. But doubly necessary was it now to carry 
Margot away, though where to bestow her in the Eng- 
lish camp he hardly knew — only he felt sure that a way 


GABKIEL THE ACADIAN 


75 


would be opened. Major Lawrence was acquainted 
with his story and would certainly aid him. More- 
over, the smallness of the force caused him to believe 
that their stay on the Missaguash would be brief, and 
once at Halifax, Margot would find refuge with her 
country-people assembled there. Perhaps there too, 
she might learn to love his faith and be turned wholly 
from the Romish Church, and then perhaps — perhaps 
— who could say ? 

But Gabriel’s daydreams were rudely dispelled, and 
the struggle betwixt love and duty was not yet at an 
end. 

The very next day, when he, with the aid of the 
faithful Micmac, was about to carry out his carefully 
laid scheme, Major Lawrence, having satisfied himself 
that his force was too small for the work it would have 
to accomplish, gave orders for immediate re-embarka- 
tion. 

“The fortunes of war, my lad,” he said, with a 
shrug, and gave the matter no further thought ; for 
Lawrence was made of very different stuff from Corn- 
wallis, as the Acadians were to discover when he be- 
came governor of the province soon after. Not by 
nature a patient man, such patience as he had acquired 
soon vanished when appointed to direct a people who, 
it must be confessed, were not without trying character- 
istics. Already he marveled at the leniency of Corn- 
wallis. To plead with Lawrence for a few hours grace, 
therefore, Gabriel knew to be unavailing ; probably it 
would have been so with Cornwallis also, for after all 


76 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


“discipline must be maintained.” But at least the 
governor would have shown some sympathy. There 
came a moment when the young soldier was inclined to 
rebel, then duty triumphed, and he had learned his 
hardest lesson in self-restraint, which if a man fails to 
learn he becomes little better than a castaway. So 
duty and honor prevailed, and Gabriel confided his 
cousin to the care of Jean Jacques for as long a time 
as the Protestant convert dared to remain in that dan- 
gerous neighborhood ; thereafter, if possible, the In- 
dian was to convey the girl to the fort at Halifax, 
where were gathered many of her countrymen. Never- 
theless, Gabriel leaned with straining eyes and an almost 
breaking heart over the bulwarks of the vessel that 
bore him rapidly away from all he loved best on 
earth, his only consolation being that he was keeping 
faith and doing his duty, and that the God of love and 
faith would not forsake either him or Margot. 

And, indeed, he was to be yet further tried. Upon 
his arrival at Halifax he found great changes. Corn- 
wallis had departed, and his place was already taken 
by Hopson, his immediate successor. In the excite- 
ment of new arrangements, heightened by the informa- 
tion that the French were invading the colonies, the 
recruit was suddenly plunged into another existence. 
By the special recommendation of the late governor he 
was attached to a lately arrived regiment marching 
south, and thereupon his boyhood’s dreams of escaping 
from the dull Acadian round, and of making himself 
of some account in the world, began to show signs of 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


77 


future fulfillment. Courage, fidelity, and intelligence, 
were virtues then as now sure to make their mark. The 
day came when the young soldier served under Wash- 
ington himself, sharing with him the failure that made 
the fourth of July, 1754, the darkest day, perhaps, of 
his whole eventful life. But Gabriel’s relations with 
the Father of his country belong to a part of his career 
with which Acadie had nothing to do, and which there- 
fore does not belong to this story. For him the long 
separation was in truth less hard than for the girl. He 
at least could drown the torturing sense of powerlessness 
to aid her in constant activity, <and in a succession of 
duties and dangers ; and the hours of his saddest 
thought were often interrupted by some stirring call to 
arms. 

Far other was poor Margot’s lot. Hers was that of 
endurance — the hardest of all. 

The day of her parting from Gabriel went heavily 
by ; and when in the waning afternoon she crouched 
in the long marsh grass while the tide fell lower and 
lower and still no craft appeared upon the waters, she 
wrung her hands in helpless anguish, knowing that in 
two short hours neither boat nor canoe could pass up 
or down the river ; for of the Missaguash nothing 
would remain but deep red mud. Yet Gabriel came 
not, and the precious minutes flew. 

The Herbes and herself, pressing far into the woods 
in the hope of returning ere long to peaceful English 
soil, had missed the weighing of the anchor at early 
dawn and the skimming seaward of the white-winged 


78 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


ship bearing Margot’s fondest hope with it. Bo the 
girl crouched in the grass and waited, while the wife 
of Louis built a fire upon the firmer land and cooked 
from their scanty store of provisions. 

Then at last, breasting the falling tide, a canoe came 
creeping up the Missaguash ; and though it came not 
down, as it should have done from the English camp, 
Margot rose to her feet, and shading her eyes from the 
westering sun, watched it with beating heart and a 
prayer on her lips. Nearer and nearer — but that was 
no bright head bending over the paddle, but a dark and 
swarthy one — the head of an Indian ; and it was Jean 
Jacques who presently grounded his little vessel, and 
slipped through the long grass toward Margot, who was 
waiting sick at heart. The Micmac spoke first. 

“Maiden,” he said, “Wild Deer has sailed toward 
the setting of the sun. The braves of his nation com- 
manded and it was for Wild Deer to obey. But the 
Micmac has found for thee a shelter until the youth 
comes again. Let us go quickly, ere the river too 
follow the sun.” 

Bitter indeed was the disappointment, but Margot 
faced it bravely. After all, though their fashion of 
faith was no longer the same, were not she and Gabriel 
both in the hands of the one God ? 

“I will go with thee, Jean Jacques,” she said, after 
a moment’s struggle with her grief; “but Louis and 
Marie, they too desire to go. Whither do we follow 
thee?” 

The Indian pointed down the Missaguash, where 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


79 


upon the opposite shore, removed from the burned set- 
tlement some two or three miles and concealed from it 
by a bend in the river, pleasant farmhouses and culti- 
vated acres brooded in the hush of evening. 

“And those good people will receive me?” 

The Indian nodded. 

“And I can work,” she added eagerly. “I can 
work well, Jean Jacques.” 

It was true. The slender, dark -eyed maiden, though 
of a frailer build than the majority of Acadian women, 
possessed the ambition they so often lacked. 

44 Come, then,” urged Jean Jacques. “The white 
man and his squaw they must wait. The waters of the 
Missaguash droop in their bed.” 

“Wilt thou come for the white man and his wife at 
the rising of the tide ? ” 

The Indian grunted in acquiescence. 

“And thou, Jean Jacques, whither wilt thou go ? ” 

He pointed southward. 

4 4 Ah, to the new fort ! There thou wilt be safe. ’ ’ 

“ And thither am I to bear thee, maiden, when the 
trail is safe for thee.” 

44 It is well. And now, wait but the flashing of an 
arrow,” cried the girl, and was gone. 

Then, as Jean Jacques squatted in the marsh grass, 
there was borne to him a sound which caused him to 
fall prone upon his stomach and crawl as the snake 
crawls toward the woods. For the sound was the cry 
of the paleface maiden, and had not Wild Deer deliv- 
ered her into the faithful keeping of the Micmac ? 


80 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


Now it was not sweet to the heart of Jean Jacques 
to turn his hand against those of his own tribe, well as 
he knew that the lambs of Le Loutre, with whom he 
had before his conversion, slain and pillaged many a 
time, were in disposition rather birds of prey than 
lambs. 

On the edge of the marsh he paused, lifting his head 
and gazing. To see was to act. With the swift and 
silent motion of the true Indian the arrow was on the 
string, and in a moment more buried in the heart of the 
feathered brave with whom Margot was struggling. In 
the background knelt a woman, clasping a crucifix to 
her bosom ; beside her the prostrate form of a white 
man — Louis Herbes and Marie, his wife. 

As Jean Jaques sprang forward Marie screamed again, 
whilst Margot uttered a cry of joy. 

“Jean Jacques! It is our good Jean Jacques! 
Hasten, Marie ! We will lift Louis, and bear him to 
the river. He is but wounded, he is not dead. ’ ’ 

With the taciturnity of his race at a crisis Jean 
Jacques spoke not. Wiser than Margot, he knew that 
the Micmacs never hunted singly, and that if their 
coveted prey reached the river in safety — well, the 
attempt could at least be made. As for the wounded 
man, he also knew that, though enjoined by Le Loutre 
to do the Acadians no injury, the lambs constantly 
employed means more in keeping with their savage 
natures than persuasion. 

Motioning to the women to take the feet of Louis, 
who was unconscious, he raised him by the shoulders, 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


81 


and the small party began a hurried retreat through 
the marsh grass. Instinctively they all stooped as they 
walked, and well it was for them that they did so, for 
more than one arrow whistled over their heads. 

“The brave is now alone,’ ’ grunted Jean Jacques 
in tones of satisfaction. “Alone he fears Jean Jac- 
ques.” 

Margot, panting and breathless, made no reply, but 
she rejoiced, knowing that the Indian spoke truth. So 
doughty a warrior as he would not be attacked single- 
handed. 

The canoe was already stranded by the falling tide, 
and the red mud was over ankle deep. Plunging into 
it, Jean Jacques, ably assisted by the strong, thick -set 
Acadian Marie, laid Louis in the canoe, and all three 
proceeded to push it toward the sluggish, ever-narrow- 
ing river. 

“ God and the Holy Mother be praised,” ejaculated 
Marie, as impelled by the paddle of the Indian the 
little vessel glided at last down the stream. 

The words had scarcely left her lips when the air at 
her ear was cut by an arrow, which swept on to bury 
itself in the back of Jean Jacques. 

The women uttered an exclamation of dismay, but 
the Indian, though his swarthy face went ashen gray, 
said not a word ; only when Marie would have extri- 
cated the arrow, muttered, “ Touch it not.” 

Fortunately there was a spare paddle in the canoe, 
and both women in turn put their whole strength into 
the work, so that aided by the tide they made rapid 

F 


82 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


progress. And well that so it was, for as the canoe 
bore up against a green promontory, upon which houses 
and groups of people were visible, Jean Jacques fell 
forward on his face, the life-blood gushing from his 
nose and mouth. Willing arms lifted him and laid 
him upon the green turf, for the habitans had for some 
time been anxiously watching the approaching canoe, 
and were ready with their aid. But Margot’s first and 
only thought was for the faithful Micmac. Carefully 
as the arrow was withdrawn, the shock was too great ; 
and as the girl bent weeping over him, it was but glaz- 
ing eyes he raised to hers. 

“Wild Deer ; tell Wild Deer.” 

Then he fell back upon her arm and spoke no more. 

Faithful unto death, indeed, was this poor Indian. 
And, heretic though he was, they laid him in con- 
secrated earth, blessed by one of the priests who, French 
assertions to the contrary notwithstanding, were always 
permitted to minister to their flocks upon English soil, 
unless detected in acts of treachery. 

So for a time poor, little, hunted Margot found peace 
and a refuge with her country people, but only for a 
time. When in a few months news of Lawrence’s re- 
turn with a larger force reached the ears of Le Loutre 
he sent forth his Micmacs to destroy the cluster of 
homes yet remaining on the English side of the water. 
The Acadians, caring not much for fighting any one, 
refused to obey his mandate and take arms against the 
redcoats, so fled in helpless terror, some to Halifax and 



“ ‘Wild Deer; tell Wild Deer.’ ” 


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GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


83 


Annapolis, but the larger number across the Missa- 
guash. Whether Le Loutre honestly desired to found 
a settlement in this locality, or merely desired to 
vent his hatred for the English, cannot be rightly 
known ; at all events his calculations were at fault 
regarding a new settlement. The French shore was 
already crowded, and if he really entertained hopes of 
filling up the marsh and turning it into fertile land for 
the benefit of the refugees, these hopes were defeated 
by the corrupt practices of his own government, which 
cared not at all for the welfare of the unhappy Aca- 
dians, but used them merely as tools. Half clothed 
and half starved, the men were at once put to hard 
labor, with scanty or no remuneration. The strong 
new fort of Beausejour, built in opposition to the less 
imposing one of Fort St. Lawrence, was the handiwork 
of Acadian refugees. Even then they might not have 
fared so ill had the supplies actually sent by the French 
government ever reached their rightful destination, but 
this was far from being the case. Official corruption , 
bad as it was throughout New France, was worse, prob- 
ably, at Beausejour than elsewhere. One of the most 
incompetent and unworthy of the numerous ‘‘office 
seekers,” to use a modern terra, was in command 
there, and the “ spoils system ” was at its height upon 
the shores of the Missaguash. Vergor, the commandant, 
applied but a small portion of the food and clothing to 
the uses for which they were intended, and sent the 
large remainder back to Quebec, or to Louisbourg, 
where his confederates sold them, greatly to his and 


84 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


their profit, but not at all to that of the poor Aca- 
dians. 

Terrified at Le Loutre, Vergor, the Micmacs, and 
French soldiers, not naturally loving the foreign race 
across the water, yet craving peaceful homes with 
them, the refugees dragged on a miserable existence, 
finding themselves becoming daily more of a burden 
to their countrymen in the settlements about Chipody. 
At length they resolved to inquire secretly of the Eng- 
lish whether they would be allowed to return to their 
homes, could they make their escape ? The answer was 
that they could return if they renewed the oath of 
fealty to the English crown, the oath they had so often 
broken in their weakness and vacillation. They would 
not be required by English law to bear arms, but if on 
the contrary they were found fighting for, or aiding the 
French, they would be dealt with as traitors. Among 
those who joined in this request were Margot’s guar- 
dians, the Herbes, also the family with whom the fugi- 
tives had found shelter on the south bank of the Missa- 
guash close to the Pont-a-Buot. 

Furious, indeed, was the anger of the abbe when he 
heard of the backsliding of his people. His ravings 
were rather those of a lunatic than of an anointed 
priest, as he flung himself hither and thither in the 
pulpit, calling down the wrath of God upon his recreant 
flock. And Le Loutre was a man who never stopped 
at mere words. So one night two things happened ; 
one, however, which had nothing to do with him. 

The people for whom Margot worked in return for 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


85 


bare sustenance were not unkind, but they found Louis 
and Marie of more service to them, being stronger and 
stouter, and little Margot, in losing heart and hope, 
was losing physical strength too. That night, as she 
crossed the meadows behind the home -going cows, she 
was very sad. Slowly, very slowly, her faith in the 
church of her fathers was being dragged up by the 
roots, and the fury of the abbe, his cruel words in the 
sacred building a few hours since, had uprooted it yet 
more. Yet she had no other spiritual guide but him — 
none to direct her in new, untrodden ways. Gabriel, 
who could have helped her, was far away. M. Girard 
she had not seen since the burning of Beaubassin, and 
she feared that the good old man was in trouble. It 
was working and waiting in the dark for Margot. 

As she neared the marsh a sound struck on her 
ear. 

“ Tst ! ” 

She glanced around fearfully, and her eyes fell on 
the head of an Indian, stealthily upreared. 

Terror of the Micmacs amounted to an inborn instinct 
among the Acadians, and common sense alone inter- 
vened to stay Margot’s flying feet. Perhaps the man 
had some message for her, a message from him who was 
ever in her thoughts. She paused, therefore, with as 
fair a show of courage as she could muster. 

“ Be not afraid, maiden,” said the Indian in broken 
French. “ Come nearer. Bent Bow carries a message 
for thee from one whom Jean Jacques called ‘Wild 
Deer.’” 


86 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


Margot’s eyes brightened, and oblivious of fear she 
approached the Indian, who she now perceived was no 
Micmac. He held toward her a little billet which she 
eagerly took. Now the good cure at Annapolis, at 
Gabriel’s earnest entreaty, had taught the cousins to 
read and write, and never was Margot more thankful 
than at this moment for the blessed privilege, though 
she had often times found the lesson hour a toilsome 
one. 

1 ‘ Ah ! ’ ’ she cried. ‘ ‘ I have nothing to give thee, 
Bent Bow, to reward thy faithfulness. The poor Aca- 
dians have not so much as a handfull of beads. ’ ’ 

“ It is enough that I bring thee the billet, ’ ’ replied 
the Indian, “ and that I serve Wild Deer. Together, 
many moons from here, we drove before us the foreign 
devils, and there came a night on which the paleface 
youth saved the life of the Indian brave. ’ ’ 

“ Wilt thou see him again ? ” cried the girl eagerly. 

Bent Bow shook his head, and with a sign of farewell 
began to crawl away through the marsh grass. 

“Is it well with Wild Deer?” she called after 
him. 

“It is well.” And she saw the messenger no more. 
Still walking behind the cows, she read the precious 
letter : 

Ma Cousine : Would that I knew it was as well with thee 
as it is with me. But, alas ! this I cannot know. Yet Jean 
Jacques is faithful, and he has vowed to care for my pearl of 
price. Long ere this he will have told thee why I failed to 
meet thee. Margot, I have for leader one of the noblest 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


87 


young men God ever created. It was a happy day for me 
when, through my father’s name, I was appointed to serve 
under such an one. Sad it is that a soldier’s life takes me 
far from thee, but I shall come again, sweet cousin, to find 
thee safe and sheltered beside the Missaguash, far from 
the cruel priest. The family to whom Jean Jacques was to 
carry thee are known by me, and will protect and cherish 
thee. 

“Ah, Gabriel,’ ’ said Margot to herself, the tears 
upon her cheeks, ‘ ‘ well is it that so much is hid from 
thee.” 

For I am coming back. Little is said, but Washington 
himself thinks that some great move is to be made, and 
that the men of New England are gathering, and that the 
governor of Massachusetts and the governor of our poor 
distraught country are planning alike against the French. 
Then I and others who came southward with me will 
return. Till then, ma cherie , mon amie, adieu. In English, 
though I have grown to like my father’s tongue, methinks 
these words are not so sweet. Gabriel. 

And all the way along the meadows her heart sang, 
“ He is coming back.” 

But at home a scene of confusion and distress awaited 
her. 

Le Loutre, not content with thunders from the pul- 
pit, had been making a house to house visitation of 
those whom he considered the most rebellious members 
his flock. Among these were classed Louis Herbes and 
his host, Franpois Marin. Banishment to Isle St. Jean, 
where many exiled Acadians were already in a fair 
way to starve, was the priest’s usual punishment ; and 


88 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


should any man refuse to obey, refusal was met by a 
threat to permit the Micmacs to carry off, and possibly 
kill, his wife and children. A yet worse fate than ban- 
ishment awaited Herbes and Marin. 

That morning in the church Le Loutre had assured 
the signers of the two documents of appeal — to the 
French and to the English governments — that if they 
did not take their names from both papers they should 
‘ ‘ have neither sacraments in this life nor heaven in 
the next.” What could the poor, hunted Acadians 
do but obey? And even with obedience came banish- 
ment for many. As for Herbes and Marin, they were 
given the grievous permission to proceed to Quebec as 
deputies on behalf of the Acadians who desired to return 
to the English side of the river. Grievous permission, 
indeed ! For even slow-witted Acadians were bright 
enough to understand that the abbe would prepare the 
way before them in such a manner as to make their 
mission not only useless, but terrifying. And truly 
they were correct in their anticipations, for after the 
visit Euquesne, the governor, wrote Le Loutre as fol- 
lows : 

‘ ‘ I think that the two rascals of deputies whom you 
sent me will not soon recover from the fright I gave 
them.” 

Such was the heartlessness with which this unhappy 
race was treated. 


CHAPTER VI 


T HE last sad scenes in the sad story of the Acadians 
in Acadie are now drawing near. Possibly had 
those two patient gentlemen, Cornwallis and Hop- 
son, continued in command of the country, such scenes 
might never have come to pass, or at least might have 
been long delayed. But, as we know, Governor Law- 
rence was soon worn out by what he described as ‘ ‘ the 
obstinacy, treachery, and ingratitude” of the Acadians, 
and he and Shirley, the governor of Massachusetts, de- 
termined to settle this troublesome affair once and for 
all. The two governors knew, moreover, that the 
French were merely waiting for a good excuse to attack 
the English, whose defenses in Acadie were of the 
feeblest, and that if they hoped to be successful they 
themselves must strike the first blow. 

The result of their decision was an act which has 
been well described as being ‘ 1 too harsh and indiscrimi- 
nate to be wholly justified,” but which is explained by 
the fact that the Acadians ‘ ‘ while calling themselves 
neutrals, were an enemy encamped in the heart of the 
province.” 1 

The first step was to lay siege to Beausejour ; and to 
the aid of the regulars flocked volunteers under the 
command of that warlike farmer, John Winslow. These 

l “ Montcalm and Wolfe.” Francis Parkman. 

89 


90 


GABKIEL THE ACADIAN 


men enrolled themselves under the orders of General 
Monckton, having responded to the call of the New 
England governor. 

It was the afternoon of a June day when the two 
deputies wearied, cowed, and helpless returned home. 
Their passage through the settlements had been greatly 
delayed by the questions showered upon them by anxious 
habitans, and it was late ere they arrived. Then again 
the tale of failure had to be told, and listened to with 
tears and lamentations. 

‘ ‘ If the Acadians are miserable, remember that the 
priests are the cause of it,” wrote a French officer to 
a French missionary. 

News had quite recently come to Chipody, the ad- 
jacent settlement, that many of the Acadians banished 
by Le Loutre to Isle St. Jean had found their way to 
Halifax, had taken the oath of allegiance to the British, 
were reinstated in their former homes, and were being 
provided temporarily with supplies by the English gov- 
ernment. Yet it was not love for the English that had 
drawn them back again — simply the love of home and 
peace. The returned deputies had scarcely finished 
their tale when the women began to try and persuade 
them to remove to Halifax, immediately if possible. 

Margot alone neither wept nor argued. There was a 
hope within her breast that would not die, a hope 
aroused by Gabriel’s letter. She stole away from the 
clatter of tongues down to the edge of the marsh -grass. 
The sun was near its setting, as it had been when she 
had waited in vain for Gabriel so long, so very long, as 


. 




















.f 

s' ’ 



















. 







Page 91. 










GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


91 


it seemed to her, ago. Where was he now ? When 

would he Then suddenly her heart stood still, to 

beat again with mingled dread and expectation. 

Far away, at the mouth of the inlet, where it broad- 
ens into Chignecto Bay, lay three small ships, English 
beyond a doubt. 

For a minute Margot lingered, giving herself up to 
speculation. Then like a bird she flew back to one of 
the rude and simple dwellings of the kind which even in 
happier days fulfilled the frugal Acadian’s highest idea 
of home. Flinging open the door without ceremony 
she cried, “ English ships in the bay ! ” and sped upon 
her homeward course. 

Herbes and Marin and their wives were still planning 
and discussing, but the words on their lips were checked 
by Margot’s breathless ejaculation. In silence they 
gazed at one another, with the characteristic slowness 
of their race. What was now to be done ? 

Margot, whose mind moved more swiftly than those 
of most of her country -people, soon spoke again, with 
as much impatience as the habit of respect for her 
elders permitted. 

“What shall we do, you say? Oh, good friends, 
let us escape to the English ships, they will help us to 
Halifax ! But oh, quick, quick ! ” 

“ You forget, maiden,” said Marin with pompous re- 
buke. “ There is the oath of allegiance in the way.” 

“And what of that?” cried all three women this 
time. Marie Herbes continuing : 

“ What hurt did the oath do us in the past? Did we 


92 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


not till our own land and gather in our crops un- 
affrighted and undisturbed? — untaxed too? Did not 
our own priests minister to us ? ” 

A crafty gleam crept into the little eyes of Marin. 

“Yes,” he said, “ and if we broke faith with our 
rulers for our good or advancement, why — pfui ! What 
matter ! ’ ’ He shrugged his shoulders and spread his 
hands. ‘ * A small matter ! Let the habitan take the 
oath anew, said the governor. But now — now it is 
otherwise. As we came through the settlement the new 
proclamation was made known to us. Should the 
French — and verily are they not of our own blood? 
make fair offers, such, for instance, that under their 
rule too, we should live in peace, and it became the duty 
of a good habitan to give ear to them, what then ? Then 
would we be called traitors, and meet the fate of such ! ’ * 

Marie lifted her eyebrows, and made a little sound of 
dissension in her throat. 

“It is true,” he persisted doggedly. 

“The good friend is in the right,” put in Herbes, 
speaking for the first time. “ This Governor Lawrence 
is not as the others, he is not to be cajoled.” 

“ But why should we break faith with the English ? ’ * 
It was Margot who spoke in a low voice. “With the 
Acadians the French have never yet kept faith.” 

“ What knows a young maid of great affairs such as 
these?” growled Marin ; while his wife added with a 
taunting laugh : 

“ But thou must remember, mon ami, that the child 
has an English lover ; what wouldst thou, then ? ’ ’ 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


93 


The color dyed Margot’s cheek, then fled, leaving 
her very pale. But she was, as we know, no moral 
coward, so she quickly controlled herself, and replied 
quietly : 

“ Pardon, madame, thou hast forgotten that my 
cousin’s mother was an Acadian, even as we are, and 
that he himself was my cousin ere he was my lover. 
The country of his birth is dear to him, though whether 
he be yet alive I know not, or whether I shall ever see 
him more.” 

Her voice choked, and her dark eyes filled. The 
good Marie clapped her briskly on the shoulder crying 
vehemently : 

“Be of a better courage, mon enfant/ Thou and 
thy heretic will meet again, never fear ! ” 

“Sometimes it misgives me that our Margot is al- 
ready part heretic herself, ’ ’ said Louis with a suspicious 
glare. 

‘ * Shame on thee, shame on thee ! ’ ’ protested his 
wife. ‘ 1 And hast thou so soon forgotten to be grateful ? 
Could the maiden not have left us that day on the 
banks of the Missaguash — you a mere helpless burden 
hindering her flight? ” Then, while Louis hung his 
head in abashed silence, she hastily brought the con- 
versation back to its former subject. It was finally de- 
cided that the whole party should proceed to the house 
of the neighbor whom Margot had warned of the arrival 
of the ships, there to discuss the advisability of further 
action. Thus slowly did the minds of Acadians work. 
The result was that the commandant at the fort received 


94 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


no notice of the enemy’s approach until the small hours 
of the morning. The attacking force was then at the 
very doors, and all was confusion and alarm. Messen- 
gers were sent in hot haste to Louisbourg for aid, and 
by alternate threats and promises the poor Acadians, 
who so much preferred to have their fighting done for 
them, were forced either to assist in the defense of the 
fort, or worse still, oppose the enemy in the open. 

It was a case of English regulars and provincials 
against French regulars and Acadians — on the one side 
the whole heart, on the other but half a heart ; for 
the French soldiers corrupted by corrupt officials, were 
no match either in resolution for the stout New Eng- 
landers, or in discipline for the British troops. The 
Acadians and Indians sent out of the fort were as mere 
puppets in the path of Monckton’s army, and the second 
night beheld the invaders safely across the river and en- 
camped within a mile of Beausejour. 

Herbes and Marin had of course been pressed into 
the service, but unlike their neighbors had decided to 
leave their families in the farmhouse instead of hiding 
them in the woods. The crafty Marin declared that 
the home was far enough from the scene of the conflict 
to insure safety, but in truth he depended far more 
upon the almost certain hope that Margot’s English 
lover would take care that she, therefore they, would not 
be molested. By this it may be seen how vague were his 
notions concerning army regulations, discipline, and so 
forth. Depending on this hope, however, the women 
and the two half-grown sons of Marin were left behind, 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


95 


to listen to the distant roar and rattle of the bombard- 
ment of Beausejour, — for the attack was not long in be- 
ginning. The wives told their beads, weeping and 
praying for the safety of their husbands, while Margot, 
pale and still, and alternating betwixt hope and fear, 
turned now consciously in her petitions to the faith of 
him whom she loved. For Margot’s nature like that 
of Gabriel, was clear and straightforward ; and now 
that the forms of the Catholic religion were getting to 
mean little to her, she faced the knowledge bravely, 
dropping these forms one by one, striving to wait pa- 
tiently until light and help should come ; and this 
lonely waiting amounted to heroism in a timid Acadian 
maid. But the length of the loneliness, the yearning 
for counsel and support, was forming the girl’s char- 
acter, and ripening it as the seed ripens within the pod. 
It was Margot, the woman, who now awaited the return 
of Gabriel, and such a woman as she might never have 
become had she led the effortless, unaspiring existence 
of the average Acadian peasant, without mental strug- 
gle or any higher object than that of living from day to 
day. 

News of the siege came but fitfully to the three 
women, bereft as they were of neighbors and the usual 
neighborly gossip ; for the inhabitants of the scattered 
houses, or rather huts, within reach had all fled to the 
shelter of the woods. Now and then some head of a 
family, wearied of what seemed to him profitless com- 
bat, having succeeded in eluding the unwelcome task, 
paused at the farmhouse to drink a cup of milk on his 


96 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


way to rejoin wife and babes, and shake his head over 
the news he brought ; or a fugitive Indian, prowling 
along the river’s bank, bade the paleface squaws make 
ready for flight, declaring that the great medicine-man 
could not much longer induce the braves to hold the 
fort against the foe. But secure in their simple faith 
that Marin would contrive to see Gabriel, and that 
Gabriel would protect them, the women refused to face 
the perils of the forest. 

The day was the sixteenth of June. For several 
days they had heard nothing, and growing hourly more 
anxious, the three would once and again drop their 
household tasks, and stepping one by one to the door, 
call to the boys perched upon the tall trees to know if 
aught might be seen or heard. When at last a shout 
went up, it chanced that all the women were in the 
house. As they ran out into the open, young Franyois 
cried : 

“ They come, they come ! a host of them ! ” 

‘ * Who come ? ’ ’ inquired his mother impatiently. 
“ Speak, boy ! ” 

‘ ‘ I cannot yet tell, ma mbre ; but yes, yes ! ’ ’ 

And little Jules took up the cry : 

“Yes, yes! It is our own dear Acadians. And 
they laugh, they are glad, they carry bundles and 
shout ! ” 

“ And see the bon pbre, Jules ; he waves his cap, 
he espies us ! ” 

And sliding down the tree, Franyois was off and 
away, deaf to his mother’s calls and commands, fol- 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


97 


lowed as promptly as the shortness of his legs would 
permit by his little brother. 

What did it all mean ? The three women left behind 
looked into one another’s eyes, with the unspoken 
query on their lips. Then, with an air of determina- 
tion, the wife of Marin threw her homespun apron 
over her head and went after her sons. Marie Herbes 
dropped upon the rude bench before the door, and 
began rapidly telling her beads, tapping her foot upon 
the ground meanwhile in an agony of impatience and 
anxiety. 

And Margot? For the lonely girl how much was 
now at stake ! Leaning against the wall of the house, 
her hands idle for the reason that she no longer owned 
beads to tell, her dark lashes resting on her pale 
cheeks, and a prayer in her heart for resignation if the 
worst was to be, she waited. 

Then it was that for the first time she fully under- 
stood that she was ever hoping and praying for the suc- 
cess of the alien race ; that she had ceased merely to 
tolerate them for the sake of the peace they gave, but 
that she had in very truth gone over, — as a few others 
of her race had done, and were doing, — heart and soul 
to the enemy. 

Undoubtedly the siege of Beausejour was at an end ; 
the question trembling on the lips of the waiting 
women was, In whose hands was the victory? For 
peaceful Acadians, released from the perils and toils of 
war, would for the moment rejoice in either victory or 
defeat ; both would sound alike to them. 

G 


98 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


Without, the sun burned more and more hotly. 
Within, the soup in the iron pot, hung above the 
crackling sticks, boiled — presently boiled over. None 
heeded. 

Half an hour dragged by, the minutes ticking 
slowly along in the old clock in the corner. Then 
Marie sprang to her feet. 

“ They come ! ” she cried. 

Verily they came — a strange spectacle. Out of the 
woods and across the bridge poured a little horde of 
Acadians — all Acadians, Margot saw in one swift 
glance, many of them excited by the red French w T ine, 
but every man of them singing and shouting, as they 
tramped along laden with what was evidently plunder 
from the fort. 

“ Beausejour has fallen — has fallen ! ” 

Thus they sang, as if exulting in the defeat of an 
enemy. 

The wife of Marin, almost as wild as the men, had 
loaded herself down with part of her husband’s burden, 
and her voice rang shrill above the tumult in response 
to Marie’s vociferous queries : 

“Beausejour has fallen, I tell thee. And the Eng- 
lish have pardoned our men because they said they but 
fought under compulsion. All is well.” 

* * But whence came this, and this ? ’ ’ persisted the 
more practical Marie, pointing to the motley collection 
of food, wearing apparel, wines, and even furniture, 
with which the ground was now littered. 

Questions for long brought no coherent reply, and it 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


99 


was not until late in the afternoon, their comrades hay- 
ing scattered in search of their respective families, that 
either Herbes or Marin was able to give a clear account 
of all that had happened. 

It was significant of the religious dependence and 
docility of the Acadian nature that one of the first 
questions asked and answered should be concerning the 
fate of Le Lo utre. At the query the two men, who 
since their vain trip to Quebec had wavered somewhat 
in their allegiance to the tyrannical abbe, shrugged 
their shoulders and spread their hands as those who 
knew nothing. 

“But, Louis,” Marie cried, “it is important that 
we know, for without him are we not but lost sheep in 
the wilderness ? ’ ’ 

“As to that, good wife, I cannot tell thee, ’ ’ answered 
Louis. “When we left that villainous fort M. V Abbe 
was nowhere to be seen. Depend on it, he was with 
the commandant. All was hurry and confusion from 
the moment the shell fell upon the officers’ table while 
they sat at meat, killing six of them, yes, six ! ” Here 
he crossed himself, shuddering, and Marin took up the 
tale : 

“Yes, and the bon Dieu alone knows how great was 
the wonder of the English, who expected to fight many 
more days, when the white flag flew from the ram- 
parts. M. V Abbe I beheld everywhere then. He ran 
from one to the other, pleading that the flag of the 
coward, for so our brave abbe called it, be taken in. 
Well, we Acadians know that he hath the gift of speech, 
L. of C. 


100 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


but now it was in vain. The French were glad to cease 
this foolish killing of men for naught, glad even as we 
were. So presently it was arranged that they should 
march out with the honors of war, — whatever honor 
there be in slaying and quarreling, — and proceed at once 
to Louisbourg. Then the officers fell to drinking and 
plundering ere they departed, and we gathered up what 
little we could lay hands on, and so took leave with our 
pardon. Of the priest I saw no more. That is all that 
has happened.” 

Margot, who during this recital had been leaning 
forward with clasped hands, at last ventured timidly, 
addressing Louis Herbes : 

‘ ‘ And mon cousin ; of him you saw nothing ? ’ ’ 

“No, little one,” replied Louis kindly; “but I 
learned that one Gabriel, with another name that cracks 
the jaws even to think of, was much spoken of during 
the attack by reason of his valor, and that he fought 
well. Rather he than I,” he concluded with a grimace. 

Margot fell back and said no more. She had all for 
which she had dared to hope ; again she must wait, it 
was true, but this time not wholly uncheered. 

The sun sank and the moon rose and the wearied 
household was wrapped in slumber, all but Margot, 
who leaned from the window of the shedroom she occu- 
pied apart from the common sleeping apartment, which 
according to Acadian custom also served for a kitchen. 
She had tried to sleep and had failed. 

Secure in the pardon granted them by the English, 
heedless of the future, the Acadians were once more 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


101 


collected under tlieir own rooftrees, and as Margot’s 
eyes roamed along the banks of the Missaguash they 
rested with a sense of sympathetic peace upon the little 
farmhouses containing so many re-united families. 

Yet it was strange how constantly on this night of 
apparent peace her mind reverted to the relentless 
priest who had caused herself and others so much mis- 
ery. Involuntarily her mind strayed backward to the 
days when they had all hung on every glance of that 
strong, imperious man, whose word was law to a weak 
and vacillating people, and who represented to the 
simple villagers salvation here and hereafter. Now, in 
his hour of defeat, how would it be ? His influence had 
already waned, she thought. 

Her window was raised only a few feet from the 
ground and, unseen by her, a figure came gliding along 
in the shadow of the wide eaves. Another moment and 
her quick ear had caught the sound of hushed steps, 
but before the flashing thought had had time to con- 
centrate in the cry, ‘ * Gabriel ! ” a grasp of iron was 
laid upon her shoulder and a hand crushed down upon 
her mouth. 

There was a hideous interval before a word was 
spoken, after her terrified eyes had taken in the fact 
that she was in the clutches of one of the dreaded Mic- 
macs. Then, was it with increased horror or with relief 
that she recognized the voice which at last spoke? 

“Margot! maiden!” The whisper was harsh. 
“It is thy priest and father in God who commands 
thy service. ’ * 


102 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


The shock temporarily deprived the girl of power to 
reply, but finding that she made neither struggle nor 
outcry, Le Loutre, for it was indeed he, released her. 

This man was her enemy, so ran her swift thought ; 
he had robbed her of all that made life dear. 

Now Margot, though gentle in heart and deed, was 
human and intolerant, as the young usually are. For- 
giveness of cruel wrong could only come through prayer 
and striving. She remembered the destroyed and aban- 
doned home, made desolate by this man ; the beloved 
gran ’ - pere , dead from exposure and want ; the beloved 
cousin, an outcast and a wanderer ; and it was this man 
who had done it. 

Yes, she guessed what the priest wanted. He was a 
hunted fugitive. But why did he come to her, whom 
he had so greatly wronged ? 

Then she remembered also the words Gabriel had 
once read to her from an ancient printed page treasured 
by his. mother as having been the property of his father : 
“Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those that 
trespass against us.” 

She was so long silent that the voice of Le Loutre 
had in it a quaver of apprehension when he again ad- 
dressed her, and when she looked up and saw, even in 
the moonlight, how almost craven were the glances the 
once arrogant priest cast over his shoulder into the dim, 
wide -stretching woods, compassion as well as higher 
emotions was aroused, and her resolve taken. 

“ M. V Abbe,” she said simply, “there are none 
here who would harm their priest, even should they 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


103 


awake. As for me, I will do what I can, and God will 
teach me to forgive you.” 

At the sound of such words from one of the least of 
his flock, the priest’s imperious temper sprang to his 
lips. But the situation was too perilous for anger. 

None here who would harm him ? He was not over 
sure of that. The men, did not they both believe he 
had harmed them ? Yet all that he had done had been 
for their souls’ good. And of a surety he knew his dear 
Acadians, who for the sake of peace and freedom from 
alarms would hesitate, even though the life of the guar- 
dian of those souls were at stake. But this maiden, 
with her it was otherwise. True, she was half-heretic, 
but she was made of sterner stuff than most of her com- 
patriots. Her he felt sure that he might trust. 

Minds work quickly in hours of danger, and it was 
but a minute before he replied : 

“I will pray for the salvation of thy soul, maiden, 
if yet it may be won. But now, ’ ’ his voice in spite of 
him trembling with anxiety, “ where wilt thou conceal 
me until such time as my trusty Cope arrives to go with 
me to Baye-Verte ? There tarries my brother in God, 
Manach, and together we seek safety at Quebec.” 

At the name of Jean Baptiste Cope, the Micmac at 
whose hands Gabriel had endured so much, Margot’s 
heart contracted with something like hatred. There 
was a short, sharp struggle within her. This, then, was 
what forgiving your enemies meant ? Oh, it was hard, 
hard ! And this priest and this Indian had injured so 
many, was it right to help them to escape ? 


104 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


Little did she guess the thoughts pouring forth from 
the abbess fertile imagination as he watched her — new 
thoughts, new ideas. Anxiety for the maiden’s soul, 
he would have said, was the mainspring of his intended 
actions, the desire to make one final effort to save her 
from perdition. Like many another too sure of his own 
holiness, the taint of personal malice, personal revenge, 
ran like a dark and dirty thread through the whiteness 
of his own soul’s garment. Le Loutre was as honest 
with himself as he was able to be, and certainly his 
fanaticism was real and true. 

Yet he judged Gabriel entirely by himself, by his 
own capacity for righteous (?) hatred : Gabriel was at 
the head of the party searching for him betwixt Beau- 
sejour and Baye-Verte, and it was for this reason that 
he had made a wide detour, appointing the meeting 
with his factotum, Cope, at a house where dwelt one who 
could be depended upon not to betray him. Her in- 
fluence over the young heretic, he believed, could also 
be depended upon, should the fugitives be intercepted 
by him in their flight. Honor, loyalty to duty, counted 
for nothing in the estimation of the religious fanatic. 

“ It is for her soul’s salvation,” he repeated to him- 
self with pious emphasis. From the woods near by 
floated the quavering cry of a night owl. 

“Await me here, Margot,” exclaimed the priest 
authoritatively, and stepping backward was lost in the 
shadows. 

Force of habit was strong, and still leaning from the 
window she instinctively obeyed. 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


105 


A few minutes elapsed, and then the terrifying In- 
dian, who no longer had terrors for her, re-appeared. 

But this time no words passed. A brawny arm 
seized her by the waist, while at the same time a cloth 
was pushed into her mouth. Unable to utter a sound, 
she was dragged from the window, and borne away. 


CHAPTER VII 


W HEN Gabriel, two or three days later, rode up to 
rejoin Monckton’s command under the walls of 
Beausejour, his heart — despite his failure to cap- 
ture the fugitive priest — beat high with joyful anticipa- 
tion, for Monckton had promised that upon his re- 
turn he should be given a few hours to visit his cousin 
and assure himself that all was indeed well with her. 
The general himself was subject to the orders of Gov- 
ernor Shirley, and Gabriel had come to him with a let- 
ter of recommendation from George W ashington . W ash- 
ington, himself a Virginian, rightly guessed that the 
young soldier, of English birth and bound to Virginia 
by ties of blood and sympathy, would not harmonize 
comfortably with the New England Puritans under 
Winslow. 

“The maiden were best at Halifax,” had been 
Monckton ’s comment on hearing Gabriel’s briefly told 
tale. “ There abide many of her people. ” 

Best ! Yes, how far best ! But wishes were vain. 
The general, when Gabriel arrived in camp, was 
busy in his tent, and merely waved his hand hurriedly 
as the young man saluted and began to make his re- 
port. 

“I know, I know!” he exclaimed. “The ras- 
cally priest has slipped through our fingers, disguised 
106 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


107 


as one of his infernal Micmacs, I understand. Well, 
the country is well rid of him. I shall soon have other 
work for you. ’ ’ 

Chancing to glance up, something in his lieutenant’s 
face struck him — something in the tense eagerness of 
the fine, soldierly figure. 

‘ ‘ Speak, ’ ’ he said kindly, ‘ ‘ what is it ? ” 

Then suddenly he remembered, and a smile illumined 
his anxious, rather worn face, while that of Gabriel 
flushed in response. 

“ Ah, I bethink me. Well, rest and eat, and then 
go to the house on the Missaguash where dwells the 
cousin. Ere long I will have less pleasant work for 
you.” 

The color ebbed from Gabriel’s face. He longed to 
inquire further ; to ask if the rumor were true that in 
consequence of persistent refusal to take the oath of alle- 
giance the Acadians were to be expelled from Eng- 
lish soil, from the places of refuge still left them by the 
French after forcing them from their former homes. 
Poor, unhappy people ; driven like sheep before the 
wolves ! But discipline forbade anything but prompt 
and silent obedience. And, as an hour or two later, 
he swung at a gallop toward the home of Herbes and 
Marin, of whose precise locality he had been informed 
by a friendly Acadian, his high hopes of the morning 
were tinged with gloomy forebodings. 

One by one the French forts were falling into Eng- 
lish hands, and in a few days Acadia would once more 
be an English province. Already the land over which 


108 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


he rode — called the Chignecto district — belonged no 
more to France. 

Across the bridge he thundered, and there in the 
midst of the meadows stood the rough cabin and outly- 
ing sheds inhabited by those he sought. Faster and 
faster flew the horse, conscious of his rider’s impatience, 
and Marin, lolling on a bench before the door, arose 
in mingled alarm and curiosity. To the women and 
children, crowding to the front at the sound of gallop- 
ing hoofs, the young soldier was a splendid apparition 
as he sprang from his excited steed and greeted them 
bareheaded, the glory of the May sun in his ruffled 
blonde curls, and his eyes shining blue as the waters of 
far Chignecto Bay. 

Then of a sudden knowledge came to Marie. 

“ Ah, the cousin ! ” she ejaculated ; and then could 
say no more. How could she tell him ? 

“Yes,” he cried, “I am Gabriel. Where is Mar- 
got?” 

‘ ‘ Ah, la pauvre petite ! Who knows ? ’ ’ 

And the kind-hearted woman threw her apron oyer 
her head and burst into loud sobs, in which she was 
joined by Julia, the wife of Marin. 

Frantic as he was with anxiety, Gabriel could ex- 
tract nothing coherent from either the women or Marin, 
the latter a stupid fellow at best, with just enough 
brains to be suspicious and obstinate ; but fortunately 
Louis Herbes arrived on the scene, and from him the 
sad tale was forthcoming. 

“Nevertheless he was no Indian,” concluded Louis 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


109 


shrewdly, glancing over his shoulder and speaking in a 
whisper ; “it was M. V Abbe himself.” 

“ How knowest thou that ? ’ ’ growled Marin. 

“I do know it,” asserted Herbes with quiet confi- 
dence. ‘ ‘ There were some who also knew and told. 
I have spoken aloud and sorely of the loss of our 
Margot. ’ ’ 

“ Yes, bon ami,” sneered Marin. “ Now tell it all. 
Give le bon pretre into the hands of the heretics. ’ 5 

“ Whom I may trust, that also I know,” exclaimed 
Louis vehemently, turning upon his friend. . . Then 
more calmly, “No matter for that. M. V Abbe is out 
of Acadie ere now, and we, say I, are well rid of him. 
Only grief and trouble did he bring us.” 

He glanced around defiantly, but the little group re- 
mained passive. Gabriel stood apart, his face hidden 
in his horse’s mane. At length he spoke : 

“And thou knowest no more, good Louis? Thou 
hast no clue ? ’ ’ 

“This only : that from Baye-Verte M. V Abbe and 
his brother priest made sail for Quebec, and it was said 
that he would leave our Margot at Isle St. Jean, 
where is a goodly colony of our people, driven out of 
Acadie long since and living miserably.” 

Gabriel groaned. Julie stepped forward and laid a 
kindly hand upon his shoulder. 

“Better that than the Indians,” she exclaimed in 
the sanguine tones habitual to her. ‘ ‘ And some- 
thing tells me that la petite escaped. Who knows? 
She may have made her way to Halifax. ’ ’ 


110 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


“Impossible!” returned Gabriel sadly. “All 
alone, those many leagues ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ But, ’ ’ put in Herbes confidently, 4 ‘ there was a 
party of our country people landed at Baye-Yerte from 
that melancholy' isle, on their way to Halifax to take 
the oath of allegiance. One party had already done so, 
with the result that they were reinstated in their old 
homes and furnished by the heretic English with pro- 
visions for the winter. This second party looked for 
the same indulgence, if not too late. Who knows? 
the maiden may have joined them. One coming hither 
from Baye-Yerte vowed that he saw her not with the 
priests.” 

“And I ? ” exclaimed Gabriel, in a sudden burst of 
anger with himself, “ why did not I capture that man, 
who over and over again has brought misery into my 
own life and the lives of all dear to me ? From 
Beausejour to Baye-Yerte it is but twelve miles, and 
meseemed I rode with my company over every inch of 
it, yet saw neither priest nor Indian. ’ * 

The face of Louis took on a peculiar expression. 

“ M. le Capitain, ’ ’ he said, ‘ ‘ it hath been related of 
us that we, the Acadians, love gold. And why not? ” 
shrugging his shoulders and spreading his hands. 
“Gold, it is good, and we are poor. M. V Abbe has 
gold always, and so there are those who would hide 
and help him, even though he be shorn of his strength. 
Also, is he not our father in God ? ’ ’ Here his expres- 
sion became devout, and he crossed himself. “Also, 
there are some who have wearied of his rule — worse, 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


111 


say I, than that of a dozen kings — and would speed 
him in his flight.” 

But Marie interrupted her husband : 

“ Yes, Halifax,” she cried, whirling on the two men ; 
“and was it not your wife, she who knows nothing, 
and the wife of the good friend, and la petite herself, 
women- all, who gave you the wise counsel to go to 
Halifax while yet there was time, and take the honor- 
able oath of allegiance, and live in peace in the fair 
Annapolis meadows, and you would not? What have 
the French done for us, I ask thee once more ? What 
matter the flag ? I tell thee once again. Give us peace 
in the homes of our fathers. ’ ’ 

And at the thought, Marie wiped the tears of memory 
from her eyes. 

Louis continued silent, and Marin it was that an- 
swered with a shrug. 

“No need to weep, bonne femme! There is yet 
time. The English are a dull race. They permit 
themselves to be deceived once and yet again.” 

“ But not again, ” put in Gabriel sternly. “Look 
you, Marin, and you too, friend Herbes, you would 
have done well to listen to the sage counsel of your 
wives, and of the little Margot,” here his voice fal- 
tered, “who was ever wise, and for whose safe keep- 
ing so long I owe you all thanks which may not be 
measured. Yet I tell you, England’s lion may sleep 
long, but he wakes at last ; so hath it ever been. Our 
governors, Cornwallis, Hopson, were men of large and 
tender heart ; they forgave and forbore. With this 


112 


GABBIEL THE ACADIAN 


governor it is otherwise ; with Governor Shirley is it 
also otherwise ; these are men who will not forbear ; 
they strike, and they strike hard. Greatly I fear me 
that naught will avail you now ; yet I know nothing 
absolutely.” 

He mounted his horse, and held out his hand to the 
group, all the brightness gone from his young face. 
But they clung to him, unwilling to part from their 
last hope, beseeching him to intercede for them, prom- 
ising that if he succeeded they would start for Halifax 
at once, searching constantly for the maiden by the 
way. 

“Alas, good friends!” replied the young man 
sadly, “I am insignificant. No word of mine has 
weight with general or governor, although it is true 
that Monckton favors me somewhat. My time, my 
person, are at the disposal of my superiors. I cannot 
even go myself to search for and rescue the beloved ! 
Even with you, my friends, I have lingered too long.” 

He pressed each hand in turn. 

“But you will try, M. le capitain f” they cried in 
chorus. 

‘ ‘ I will try. But I am not even a captain ! ’ ’ 

He smiled kindly upon them, but in his eyes was a 
sorrow akin to despair. Another moment, and the 
thunder of his horse’s hoofs sounded upon the bridge. 

It was as he foretold. The long years of indulgence 
were at an end. The storm so slow in gathering broke 
at last with the fury of the long-delayed. Winslow and 
Monckton, the New England and the British generals, 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


113 


their tempers ruffled by distasteful duty, were already 
inclined to fall out ; and Gabriel soon saw that in order 
to intercede successfully for his Acadian friends he must 
bide his time. But the peremptory orders sent by 
Governor Lawrence neither general was in a hurry to 
carry out ; and so it happened that one day Gabriel 
perceived his chance and seized it. 

4 4 They are friends of yours, you say ? ” said Monck- 
ton, “and cared for the cousin in her time of need? 
How came it, then, that they gave her not better pro- 
tection now ? They tell you she is safe, but how know 
they ? How know you ? ’ ’ 

“Ah, if I did but know ! ” broke from the young 
soldier involuntarily. Then controlling himself, he 
proceeded: “General, the women of the household 
have long striven with the men that they should return 
to live under the English flag. Herbes and Marin were 
among those who signed the petition to the French 
and English governments that they should be allowed 
to do so, thereby grievously displeasing Le Loutre, so 
that he selected these men to go to Quebec as deputies, 
well knowing the reception that awaited them there. 
Thus did he punish them ; and my lord can guess that 
it was punishment indeed ! ’ ’ 

Monckton half smiled ; then rubbed his forehead in 
weariness and perplexity. Finally he said : 

“Well, lieutenant, go! But bid them do quickly 
that which they desire. The order has gone forth, and 
in a day or two at farthest I may spare none.” 

So once more Gabriel flew across the Missaguash, and 

H 


114 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


although he could hear nothing more of Margot, he at 
least had the consolation of feeling that he had saved 
her benefactors, and that there was always hope she 
might be found at Halifax, whither the party started 
that same night in their ox-wagons, driving their milch- 
cows before them. 


CHAPTER VIII 


A ND now followed bitter days indeed. A merciless 
guide and shepherd might Le Loutre have been, 
but at least iu him the helpless flock had found a 
leader ; he had forsaken them, and like silly sheep they 
ran hither and thither, halting more than ever betwixt 
two opinions. Looking vainly to the French for as- 
sistance, they shill y-shallyed too long with the oath of 
allegiance to the English government, and began to 
reap the terrible harvest accruing from long years of 
deceit and paltering with honor. It has been written 
that a man may not serve two masters, and too late 
the unhappy Acadians realized the truth of these words. 

Gabriel gave thanks that it was the New England 
troops that were sent out from Beausejour, re-christened 
Fort Cumberland, to gather in all the male Acadians 
in the vicinity, since but a small proportion had obeyed 
the summons to report themselves at the fort. But he 
rejoiced too soon. Winslow was soon ordered to the 
Basin of Mines, and especially requested that the 
lieutenant who had distinguished himself during the 
siege might accompany him with a few regulars. 

The entire Basin of Mines, including the village of 
Grand Pre, having been left comparatively undisturbed 
by Le Loutre and his “lambs,” still continued to be 
prosperous Acadian settlements ; and it was therefore 

115 


116 


GABKIEL THE ACADIAN 


upon them that the storm broke most destructively, and 
it was there, perhaps, that the saddest scenes in this 
sad history took place. Yet it was here too, that the 
people had benefited most by the lenient English rule, 
and had shown themselves most unreliable and treach- 
erous ; or, to speak more accurately, had yielded with 
the greatest weakness to the abbe's instigations, in par- 
ticular as regarded the disguising of themselves as Indians 
that they might plunder English settlements. By this 
means they had saved their own skins, so to speak, and 
had been spared many persecutions at the hands of Le 
Loutre. And now these unhappy peasants, too dull of 
brain to thoroughly understand what they were bring- 
ing upon themselves, refused to sign the oath of al- 
legiance “until after further consideration.” Already 
six years of such “ consideration ” had been granted 
them by the indulgence of former governors ; and instead 
of considering, they had been acting, — acting the part of 
traitors. As has been said, the present governors of New 
England and Nova Scotia were in no mood for longer 
dalliance, even had they been able to afford it. If 
more time were given, the French, whose forces were 
the stronger, might regain all they had lost. The 
Acadians were aware of the superior strength of France, 
and this knowledge was one of the causes of their suicidal 
tardiness. 

It was with a gloomy brow, therefore, that Gabriel 
stood one bright September morning at the window of 
the vicarage at Grand Pre, gazing forth upon the rich 
farms and meadowland spread before him, backed by 


GABKIEL THE ACADIAN 


117 


the azure of mountain and water. Winslow was a 
thorough soldier, if a rough man ; and, like every 
officer, regular or colonial, loathed his task, though 
convinced of its necessity. At Fort Edward, farther 
inland, he had found both sympathy and good fellow- 
ship in the English lieutenant stationed there ; but 
sociabilities had to end now, although a friendly inter- 
course was kept up, Winslow and Murray remaining 
on the best of terms throughout their detested work. 

The two officers had decided not to interfere with 
the farmers until the crops were gathered ; but as Wins- 
low’s force was greatly outnumbered by the Acadians, 
he put up a palisade around the church, graveyard, and 
vicarage, thus making a kind of fort. Before doing so, 
however, he had directed the Acadians to remove from 
the church all sacred emblems lest through the bigotry 
and fanaticism of the Puritan soldiers these revered 
treasures should be destroyed. 

The New Englander expressed his own feelings thus, 
in a letter to his commanding officer : ‘ ‘ Although it is 
a disagreeable path of duty we are put upon, I am sen- 
sible it is a necessary one, and shall endeavor strictly 
to obey your excellency’s orders.” 

Winslow and Murray arranged to summon the habi- 
tans at the same day and hour, in order that the stun- 
ning blow might fall on their respective districts at 
once. A natural antipathy, needless to say, existed 
betwixt the Puritan soldiers of New England and the 
habitans of Acadia. The former, moreover, were 
hardened by a life of struggle and difficulty in a climate 


118 


GABRIEL TIIE ACADIAN 


and with a soil less genial than that of Acadie ; and 
these soldiers belonged to the same age and race that 
put to death helpless women for witchcraft and hanged 
harmless Quakers for the crime of refusing to leave the 
colony of Massachusetts. Yet even they must at times 
have felt some pity for the unfortunate peasants, driven 
from their peaceful homes. Le Loutre, however, had 
felt none during all the years he had been at the same 
work. 

When the hour arrived in which the assembled 
Acadians were to be told that they were prisoners, 
Gabriel had begged of Winslow’s clemency that he 
might be absent from the church ; and now, as he stood 
sadly at the window of the vicarage parlor, the door 
of the room was softly pushed open, and Marin stood 
before him. His little eyes were restless with fear, and 
his naturally crafty countenance was drawn and pale. 

Gabriel uttered an exclamation, and sprang forward. 

“ Tchut ! ” The peasant put his finger to his lips. 
“ I was in Halifax, eh, M. le Capitain t ” he whispered. 
“ Nay, but here am I at Grand Pre — and so much the 
worse for a good Catholic ! I said, I have tricked these 
heretics before and I will trick them again. It is a 
good deed — but this time the holy saints were not 
with me. ’ ’ 

The young officer made a gesture of despair and dis- 
gust. 

“ But, friend Marin, what of thy given word ? Didst 
thou not promise me that if I obtained permission for 
thee to go to Halifax, thither thou wouldst go ? ” 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


119 


The man shrugged his shoulders. 

“Assuredly. But what of that? One more or less 
— what matters it ? At Grand Pre no foolish oath was 
then required — at Halifax, yes ! ” 

“ But how didst thou escape from the church? ” 

“ Oh, that was not difficult. We were caught, we 
men, as rats in a trap ; but the general yielded to our 
tears and prayers, and we are to choose daily twenty to 
go home and console the wives and children. I am 

among the first lot chosen, and ’ ’ 

Gabriel interrupted him impatiently. 

“ But Louis Herbes, is he also at Grand Pre? ” 

‘ ‘ Alas, no ! the wife, she was too strong. They 
proceeded to Halifax. I too desire to go thither now 
if thou, who art of Acadie, wilt aid me.” 

“ When thou needest help before, I was of the hated 
English,” retorted the young man grimly. “ But be 
I what I may, English or Acadian, I serve honor first 
— and so bethink thee ! 5 ’ 

“Honor? Assuredly, M. le Capitain! Yet lis- 
ten.” He came nearer, lowering his voice to a whisper. 
“ I come not back, hearest thou ? ” 

‘ 1 And what of thy countrymen here ? Of a certainty 
they will be held answerable for thy treachery. ’ ’ 

“ That will be thy part to arrange,” observed Marin 
coolly. 

Gabriel, ever quick to act, sprang upon the peasant 
and seized him by the collar of his blouse. For a 
moment, anger deprived him of the power of speech. 
Then- 


120 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


“And thou wilt make me traitor too !” he cried. 
4 ‘ Almost I could wish that uo blood of Acadie ran iu 
my veins ! ” 

‘ ‘ And Margot — is she not Acadian ? ’ 9 

Marin was quite unabashed, and there was a leer in 
the small eyes he turned up to the young giant who 
held him as a mastiff holds a rat. 

At the name of Margot, Gabriel loosed the man, 
covered his eyes with his hands and sank into a chair. 

“ Ah, Margot ! ” he groaned. 

“ Yes, Margot, I say again. Thou wilt let me go, 
and thou wilt swear that thou knowest of a truth that I 
overstayed my time, and was drowned in the marshes 
hurrying hither in the darkness of the night, that thou 
didst strive to save me and failed. The salt marshes 
receive the dead, and cover them kindly. All this 
thou dost know, and my good character also. Who 
will doubt the word of a brave soldier ? ’ ’ 

“ A clumsy plot, indeed, even were I willing to for- 
swear my honor for thee ! 99 

Gabriel had his friend by the collar again. 

‘ ‘ Release me, or I will not tell thee what I know ! ’ * 
ejaculated Marin sullenly. 

“ Tell, and be done ! 99 

The young man let go of his prisoner so suddenly 
that the fellow nearly fell upon the floor. 

“ Not so fast, my brave capitain ! 99 Marin was ey- 
ing him now from a safe distance. “ Not a word of the 
belle cousine dost thou win from me until I have thy 
promise to aid me to escape.” 






‘ And thou wilt make me traitor too,’ he cried.” 

Page 120. 




GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


121 


Gabriel was silent. 

“ It is as I say. I know where Margot is to be found, 
but ” Marin paused expressively. 

Gabriel still did not answer. When at last he spoke, 
his voice was low and stern. 

“ Marin, I owe thee somewhat in that thou didst 
open thy doors to my cousin and her friends in their 
time of stress. Thou hast said that I am Acadian. 
True ! But also am I English, and an English soldier 
and a Protestant. There is my faith and my honor — 
both forbid a lie. Not even for Margot can I do this 
thing.” 

His voice broke, and he turned away. Well, he knew 
the combined obstinacy and ignorance of the typical 
Acadian peasant, such as in some sort Marin was, and 
he hoped nothing. Marin, on the contrary, not under- 
standing the situation, would not give up, and, in the 
few remaining minutes left uninterrupted, worked his 
hardest. The temptation was sore indeed, and by the 
time his tormentor was summoned to accompany the 
deputies, Gabriel’s young face was pale and drawn with 
the struggle. 

“Tell me but one thing,” he said ere they parted, 
“is it well with her ? ” 

“Well? How know I?” retorted the Acadian, 
surveying the result of his work with mingled compla- 
cency and disgust. “ Perhaps ! ” 

But for the tremendous pressure already being put 
upon his unhappy commander by the events of this fifth 
day of September, Gabriel would have gone directly to 


122 


GABKIEL THE ACADIAN 


him, and despite his gratitude to Marin for past serv- 
ices, would have requested that he be detained until he 
should reveal the whereabouts of Margot. But Wins- 
low, New England Puritan though he might be, was 
finding, in common with his English brother-in-arms at 
Fort Edward, “things very heavy on his heart and 
hands”; so Gabriel forebore to trouble him with his 
own matters. 

And if his superior’s heart was heavy, how much 
heavier was his — born and reared an Acadian of the 
Acadians, and now with personal loss and grief added 
to his other sorrows ! 

Marin, though crafty and self-seeking, had not the 
daring to break his word, unsheltered as he was by 
Gabriel from the righteous wrath of his compatriots ; so 
night saw him back within the stockade. He kept his 
secret, nevertheless, and neither persuasion nor threats 
prevailed with him. The rest of the prisoners were all 
strangers to Gabriel, and had never heard of him before ; 
and for reasons of his own, Marin kept their previous 
acquaintance dark. 

As the days went on, and the prisoners increased in 
number both at Fort Edward and Grand Pre, the com- 
manding officers grew uneasy. The transports that 
were to bear away the Acadian families with their 
household goods were slow in arriving, and it would 
have been easy for the prisoners, had they been men 
of courage and resolution, to overpower their guards 
and escape. Unfortunately the Acadian character 
possessed none of those qualities necessary for the 


GABKIEL THE ACADIAN 


123 


preservation of freedom, or for the reclaiming of it 
if lost. Gabriel’s duties kept him constantly within 
the stockade ; and the small force having no horses with 
them, and the village of Grand Pre, together with the 
other settlements, straggling for many miles, he had 
never been within a league of the house of Marin or 
encountered any chance acquaintance. The times were 
too strenuous, the crisis too tremendous, to permit of the 
least relaxation on the part of a loyal officer. 

But although the transports delayed, ships from 
Boston came and anchored in the Basin. Winslow there- 
upon resolved to place about half of his prisoners upon 
these ships, and keep them there for better security 
until the transports should arrive. To Gabriel, because 
of his complete understanding of the language and the 
nature of his fellow-countrymen, the general left the 
hard task of explaining to the prisoners what was 
required of them, and of persuading them to submit 
quietly. 

All were very silent as they stood in the churchyard 
guarded by soldiers. Winslow himself kept rather in 
the background, leaving his subordinate to enact the 
part of principal in this trying scene. The general, 
though a good soldier and popular with his men, had 
hitherto passed for a person somewhat ignorant and 
over-much addicted to self-satisfaction. But in the last 
few weeks he had had little opportunity for satisfaction 
even with himself. “ This affair is more grieveous to me 
than any service I was ever employed in ! ” was his 
constant lament. And now, as he stood quietly watch- 


124 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


ing Gabriel, he observed for the first time the change 
in the young man. He was pale and wan, and his 
eyes wore the look of one who is forever seeking and 
never finding. 

In a low, clear voice he announced the decision of the 
general, assured them of their perfect safety, and also 
that the wives and children of the married would soon 
be restored to them. 

For a while a great murmuring prevailed, which Ga- 
briel was powerless to subdue ; it seemed as if, desjfite 
every effort, bloodshed must be the result of the mani- 
festo. The New England soldiers, as has been said, 
had little sympathy with the ‘ 1 idolaters, ’ ’ and were 
ready at a word to make short work of them. But 
Winslow was reluctant to say that word, and ere long 
Gabriel had the prisoners once more under control. A 
given number of unmarried men were then selected, 
these being sent off under guard to the ships ; after 
them were to follow a smaller number of married 
men. 

Gabriel stood like a figure carved in stone at the 
head of his handful of soldiers, whilst the commanding 
officer himself selected the Acadian husbands and 
fathers. Suddenly, before the guard could interfere, a 
figure hurled itself out of the chosen group and pre- 
cipitated itself upon Gabriel, while a voice shrieked : 

“Thou, thou who art an Acadian, thou canst save 
me ! me, who took the cousin into my house and fed 
and sheltered her ! Answer, dost hear? ” 

But Gabriel was on duty, and made as though he 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


125 


neither heard nor saw. Shaking Marin from his arm, 
he motioned to his men to replace him in the ranks. 

Winslow’s curiosity, ever active, was, however, 
aroused, and seizing his opportunity, he drew his subor- 
dinate to one side and questioned him. Gabriel re- 
plied with his customary brevity and straightforward- 
ness. 

‘ * And why did you not come at once to me, sir ? ” 
rejoined Winslow, puffing and mopping his fat, red 
face. 

The young man stated his reasons, adding that though 
Marin might possibly know where Margot was, no reli- 
ance was to be placed upon the word of a man who 
was concerned only for his own comfort and had no 
respect for truth. 

“That may be, that may be,” fussed the kind- 
hearted general. “ But, lieutenant, you will now con- 
duct these men to the ships. Their women will of a 
surety line the way along which you have to pass. As- 
sure them of my permission to visit their men-folk daily 
until this troublesome job be at an end — as God grant 
it may be ere long. Your eyes may be on the women 
as well as on your duty, eh? You are young, yet I 
have proven you worthy of trust.” 

So saying, the general bustled off, and shortly after 
the gates of the stockade were again opened and the 
procession started for the shores of the Basin. 

For one of Gabriel’s years and position the task set 
him, though kindly intentioned, was a heartbreaking 
one. But a few miles distant, near the mouth of the 


126 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


Annapolis River, he and Margot had been born and 
reared. In spite of his manhood, or perhaps because 
he was so true a man, the hot tears rose to his eyes, 
kept from falling only by the might of his iron will ; 
for all along the wayside toward the water’s edge 
kneeled or stood the wives and children of the men 
tramping beside him through the late summer’s dust, 
gazing as they passed not merely on those wives and 
children, but upon the wide and fertile meadows whose 
harvests they should never gather more. 

At intervals as he walked Gabriel proclaimed the 
general’s behests and promises ; and one or two women, 
who knew now for the first time of his presence in the 
neighborhood and recognized him, pressed forward to 
clasp his hands and cover them with tears, and plead 
with the man who, as a little babe, they had held upon 
their strong knees and pressed to their broad Acadian 
bosoms. Unable longer to endure in silence, on his 
own account he at length called a halt, and in loud, 
ringing tones spoke these words : 

“ Fellow-countrymen, I serve my general, and him 
I must obey. But his heart, even as my own, is heavy 
for your sufferings, and again I tell you that your hus- 
bands and fathers are not being borne away from you. 
They will remain on the ships but a short distance from 
the shore, and every day you can visit them until such 
time as the transports arrive and you all sail away to- 
gether, you and your children and your household 
goods. Grieve not, then, for loss which is not yours.” 

Concluding his brief address he stepped down from 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


127 


the low mound upon which he had mounted, and con- 
fronted the wife of Marin. Evidently she belonged to 
the class of women whose indifference had so greatly 
astonished the English lieutenant ; for her face was 
calm, and she smiled as she met Gabriel’s eyes. It 
was impossible for him to pause longer, but although 
her husband’s malevolent gaze was riveted upon her, 
Julie extended her hand and caught that of the young 
officer as he swung past on the march. 

“Look for meat the church,” she whispered, “at 
the hour of vespers.” 

Gabriel’s impulsive heart leaped within him, and in 
an instant a thousand wild hopes and imaginings were 
seething in his brain ; and the women, being appeased 
and many of them hurrying homeward to prepare meals 
to carry to the ships, he was left unmolested. He con- 
cluded his task without further difficulty, and returned 
to the church. 

The general, relieved from pressing anxiety, was in 
a mood to satisfy his natural curiosity, and having re- 
ceived his lieutenant’s formal report, began to ply him 
with questions respecting his personal affairs. Gabriel 
answered without reserve. 

“Mark me, sir!” exclaimed Winslow delightedly, 
“ the maiden comes hither this night with the woman. 
Then will we have some romance in these melancholy 
times.” 

And forgetting his dignity, he clapped his subordi- 
nate violently on the shoulder. And Gabriel found 
nothing to say. 


CHAPTER IX 


B UT Winslow was in error. The wife of Marin 
came alone, and Gabriel’s yearning eyes traveled 
in vain beyond the sturdy figure of the Acadian 
peasant woman for the slight one of his cousin. 

The meeting took place in the general’s private par- 
lor. 

“ Ah, you expected la petite ! ” began Julie volubly, 
“ but that may not be — not yet.” 

“Where is she, friend Julie ? ” interrupted the young 
man impatiently. “How did she escape from the 
priest? Is she well ? Is she happy? Does she think 
of me ? Only tell me. ’ ’ 

“But that is much to tell, my brave boy,” laughed 
Julie. “ Listen now to me, who am indeed thy friend. 
Thou shalt see her, and she shall answer those many 
questions with her own lips, but on one condition : the 
marriage must be at once — on the instant. Otherwise, 

Marin ” she shrugged her shoulders expressively. 

“It is not well, seest thou, to fall out with a husband. 
Now, Marin is a prisoner, therefore am I a weak woman 
left alone to deal with a young man of violence, seest 
thou ? Thou dost seize thy bride, thou dost carry her 
to thy priest, who am I? But shouldst thou delay, 
and I bring la petite to visit thee once, twice, many 
times, Marin, he will say, * Thou, bonne femme , wast 
128 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


129 


the guardian of this child, and thou didst take her to 
visit a heretic, allowing her also to neglect the duties 
she owes thee.’ But once 'thy wife, M. le Capitain, 
and all is over.” 

Gabriel listened to this harangue with eyes upon the 
ground and the red color slowly flushing to his fair 
face. He continued silent so long that the woman 
lost patience. 

“ MonDieu! ” she ejaculated under her breath, “ is 
it the English blood that makes him so dull ? ’ ’ 

At last he spoke hesitatingly : 

“ Good friend, thou sayest, * Seest thou ? * I reply, 
* Seest thou not also ? ’ There has been no talk of 
marriage betwixt Margot and myself. Truly do I de- 
sire it,” his eyes flashed, and he raised his head. “ I 
desire it with all the strength that is in me, but with 
Margot, the maiden, it may be otherwise.” 

Again the wife of Marin laughed. So loudly did 
she laugh that the general, pacing the vicarage garden, 
paused at the open window to acquaint himself with 
the cause of her mirth. 

“ It is the brave g argon, my general. He knows 
nothing. Let him but arrange for the marriage, and 
I, even I, Julie, will answer for the maiden.” 

Then, on being questioned by Winslow, she went 
over her tale once more, and the two gossips would 
have promptly settled the whole aflair out of hand 
had not one of the principals interposed. 

“Let me but see her once — only once — first,” im- 
plored Gabriel. 


130 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


The general, promptly won oyer to the side of Julie, 
hesitated, in such haste was he for the pleasurable ex- 
citement of a wedding ; but finally it was resolved that 
the young lover should go the following morning to 
Julie’s little cabin, and there win his fair young bride 
for himself. 

As Julie drew on her hood preparatory to departure, 
Winslow inquired of her how it fared with the women, 
remarking that she herself seemed to bear her fate with 
much cheer. 

“ For the others — well, while many lament, all do 
not. For myself I care not. I weary of the French 
rule and the fighting and wandering and the savage 
Indians. Anywhere I go willingly where there is 
peace, and the soil is fruitful — v’la tout ! ” 

So she went ; and the early sun was glistening on 
meadows yet dewy when Gabriel, forgetful for the mo- 
ment of the sorrows around him and his own distasteful 
duties, strode along the same dusty road he had tra- 
versed the previous day, arriving in the course of an 
hour or so at the small hut inhabited by the Marins. 
Julie, hastening forth to milk, greeted him with a 
broad smile, and waved to him to enter. 

Enter he did, and in a second, neither knew how, he 
held Margot close to his heart. 

It was long before a word was spoken. It was enough 
that they were together ; and when at length Gabriel 
found voice, it was at first only for expressions of pity 
and endearment for the frail little creature who seemed 
lost within his large embrace. 










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. . . before the empty hearth.” 

Page 131. 


“ They sat down side by side 






GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


131 


“ But I am not so frail, mon cousin,” she protested. 
“ I can work and endure, ah, thou knowest not how 
much ! ’ 5 

“But never again, cherie ! ” was Gabriel’s reply; 
and grown strangely and suddenly bold, he added : 
‘ ‘ and remember, it must be ‘ mon cousin ’ no longer, 
for from this very day there shall be an end of 
‘ cousin ’ — it will be ‘ wife ’ and ‘ husband. ’ Hearest 
thou ? ’ ’ 

Yes, Margot heard, but had nothing to say. Finally 
she remarked in a low voice : 

‘ 1 1 would be baptized into thy faith first. ’ ’ 

“What? ” cried Gabriel joyfully. “Is that really 
so, my Margot ? What glad news ! Now is all indeed 
well with us ! There is a chaplain at Fort Edward ; 
he will baptize thee, and marry us.” 

They sat down side by side upon the rude bench be- 
fore the empty hearth, and talked and made plans as 
lovers have done since lovers first began. Gabriel’s 
mind, as we know, worked quickly, and he soon had 
beautiful schemes mapped out for being transferred to 
Washington’s command in Virginia, that rising young 
general having been recently appointed commander-in- 
chief of the army there. 

“My noble captain is now stationed at Winchester,” 
he concluded, “ and with him is that grand old soldier 
Fairfax, the lord lieutenant of the county. They are 
engaged in subduing the Indians. At Winchester we 
will live, and then shall I be ever at hand to protect 
my wife.” 


132 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


News traveled slowly in those days, and Gabriel 
had heard nothing of the panic at Winchester, and 
with the confidence and faith of youth believed that 
his hero, George Washington, could accomplish even 
the impossible. 

But duty called, and Julie returned, and Gabriel 
had to depart ; yet not before it was arranged that, with 
Winslow’s permission, assured in advance, Julie should 
bring Margot that evening to the church, there to meet 
the chaplain from Fort Edward, who would perform 
the two sacraments of baptism and marriage. 

Winslow, naturally of a cheerful disposition, rejoiced 
in this break in the monotony of misery, hastily dis- 
patched a messenger to Fort Edward, and but for 
Gabriel’s entreaties would have made the marriage as 
jovial an affair as Puritanical principles admitted of. 
Discipline forbade that a woman could be received as an 
inmate of a fortified camp, neither could Gabriel be 
spared often from duties destined to become daily more 
onerous and troublesome ; but to the two, scarcely 
more than boy and girl, who stood that evening with 
bowed heads before the chaplain, there was more than 
common comfort in the solemn words : “ Those whom 
God hath joined together let no man put asunder.” 

Joy and thankfulness, deep and unutterable, swelled 
the heart of the young husband as, from the gate in the 
stockade, he watched the slight form of his girl-wife 
disappear into the gathering shades of night. She was 
his now — his to claim, to protect, to have and to hold 
till death did them part. 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


133 


In the excitement and rapture of meeting, Gabriel 
had hardly bethought him to ask her how she had 
escaped from Le Loutre. The fact that she had 
escaped, that she was alive and well and with him, 
filled his mental horizon. The tale, however, was 
short. The priest, hard pressed, had been compelled 
to give her up to a party of fugitives hastening to Hali- 
fax to take the oath. This party had come upon the 
Marins, and thinking they also were bound for Hali- 
fax, Margot had willingly joined them, finding out 
when it was too late Marin’s change of view. 

In those last sad days for her country -people Margot 
showed of what stuff she was made. Consoling, up- 
holding, encouraging, she seemed to have arrived sud- 
denly at a noble womanhood. This, however, was not 
the case. She had been growing toward it slowly but 
surely through years of adversity. 

The continued delay in the coming of the transports 
bred trouble betwixt the soldiers and the Acadians. 
“The soldiers,” we are told, “disliked and despised 
them,” the Acadians, and the general found it neces- 
sary not only to enforce discipline more sternly among 
his troops, but to administer the lash also on occasion. 

At last, one October day, Winslow had four trans- 
ports at his disposal. Orders and counter-orders, la- 
mentation and weeping, disturbed the clear, still air. 
Villages had to be arranged to go together in the same 
transport as well as families ; and this, with so few 
troops at his command, was no easy task for the gen- 
eral, who naturally was possessed of very little experi- 


134 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


ence as regarded organization. Gabriel, who while 
under Washington had received of necessity some train- 
ing, was his right hand man. The male prisoners were 
removed from the ships to land while the mustering 
went forward. 

As the women filed past the spot where for a moment 
the harassed general and his subordinate had come to- 
gether, and the pair gazed upon the melancholy con- 
fusion of young and old, and household belongings in 
carts, Winslow groaned: “I know they deserve all 
and more than they feel ; yet it hurts me to hear their 
weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth ! ’ ’ 

At Fort Edward, as well as at many other places in 
the province, the same terrible scenes were being 
enacted — those in command, without one single au- 
thentic exception, carrying out the stern decree as 
mercifully as possible. Beside the long train of women 
walked the priest of each village, encouraging and up- 
holding his flock. A few of these priests accompanied 
the exiles, but most of them returned to Canada. 

Not all the women, however, were “ weeping and 
wailing.” Some, as has been remarked, appeared to 
be wholly undisturbed. Among these latter was Julie, 
in the cart with whom was Margot, bound to see the 
last of her benefactress. As they passed, both women 
waved their hands to the two officers, Julie calling gayly 
to Gabriel : 

“ It is well, M. le mari! Our ship goes to Virginia, 
where we shall again meet. Is it not so ? ” 

For weary weeks the misery was prolonged, and it 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


135 


was the close of the year before Winslow’s and Mur- 
ray’s bitter task about the Basin of the Mines was com- 
pleted. But improved organization rendered even 
difficult things easier, and by the last of October the 
general was able to part, though with extreme reluct- 
ance, with his most efficient subordinate. Gabriel, pro- 
moted to a captaincy, set sail with his wife on one of 
the transports for Virginia. 

The poor exiles, with comparatively few exceptions, 
were scattered around in the various States from Massa- 
chusetts southward, meeting with no cruelty certainly, 
but also with no welcome from the struggling colonials, 
and only in Louisiana thriving and becoming a perma- 
nent colony. Canada, and even France and England, 
were also forced to receive them, and in Canada, 
among the people of their own faith, their lot was the 
hardest. Help in their own church they found none, 
and indeed in many instances implored to be taken 
back to the English Colonies, where at least they were 
not treated with actual inhumanity. The war at last 
at an end, many, the Herbes amongst the number, 
found their way back to their own country. A large 
portion of the fertile province lay waste, however, for 
years, the New England soldier-farmers refusing either 
part or lot in it, and English settlers finally being 
brought from over sea. 

It is doubtful if the Acadians ever learned the fate 
of their leader and tyrant. Captured on the ocean by 
the English, Le Loutre died in prison, after having 
been nearly assassinated by one of the soldiers of the 


136 


GABRIEL THE ACADIAN 


guard, who swore that the holy father had once in 
Acadie tried to take his scalp ! 

And Gabriel and Margot ? Their lives were happy, 
although the pain of separation was sometimes theirs, 
and they were often exposed to perils and dangers. As 
an officer under Washington through stirring times, 
both in the Indian wars and the war of the Revolution, 
Gabriel’s could not be other than the life of sacrifice 
and self-devotion demanded by the life of a true 
patriot. Margot seconded him bravely, cheering him 
on at the trumpet-call of duty and never restraining 
him by selfish fears and interests. She kept around 
her a few of her country people ; and there in Virginia 
she reared a family of brave boys to follow in their 
father’s steps. 
























































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